And feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consume
The cold precision of your austere sleep—
And all night long I beat it back, and weep.
It is not gentleness but mad despair
That sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine,
Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseen
We call our soul. Yet thick within our hair
The dusty ashes that our days prepare.
The dark comes up, my little love, and dyes
Your fallen lids with stain of ebony,