Slay me, and kill me, dearest, deal me death.
Lo! I will murmur with my latest breath,
Laying this lily at thy gracious feet,
How precious, nay, how utter art thou, sweet.
J. M. Lowry.
Swinburnese.
Also thine eyes were mild as a lowlit flame of fire,
When thou wovest the web whereof wiles were the woof and the warp was my heart.
Why left’st thou the fertile field whence thou reapedst the fruit of desire?