Stir with a hunger that is divinely just
For my allotted and inevitable decay.
My kinship with the stars is, in the play,
The tragedy of my return to dust.
For you I love, and for me whom I dream,
I rise out of the roots of my desire,
Lay a gold canopy fringed with the sun’s fire
Over our bodies whether they may seem
Clasped on a marriage-bed,
Or lying together pale in the sword’s gleam