He brought her to his room:
And in the awfulness of death,
That filled her wide eyes with its breath,
He set her in a carven chair
Where the still moon could kiss her hair.
One moment then he paused to think:
Then to her lips, all drawn and dead,
His strange elixir pressed and—"Drink!
Drink life and love!" he said.
And it—it drank; the dead drank slow: