So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me,
Loved—and lied!
Ay, dead loves are the potent!
Like any cloud they used you,
Mere semblance you, but substance they!
Build we no mansion, weave we no tent!
Mere flesh—their spirit interfused you!
Hence, I say!
All theirs, none yours the glamour!
Theirs each low word that won me,