All sweet sins shall be forgot
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.
Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?
Sail, to-night, the Styx's breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest.
Spirits of my shared transgressions.
Roam with young Persephone,
Plucking poppies for your slumber...
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.
For a Sad Lady
And let her loves, when she is dead,
Write this above her bones:
"No more she lives to give us bread
Who asked her only stones."
Recurrence
We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.