To crimson her bosom!—I set her there
In that carven chair; then turned the blade,—
With its white-gold handle thick with the glare,
Barbaric, of jewels, wildly inlaid,—
To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare.
A stain of blood on her breast, and one
Black red o'er my heart, you see.—'Tis good
To die with her here!... Does the sinking sun,
Through the dull deep west burst, banked with blood?—
Or is it that life will at last have done?...