With roses will I strew our bed
Where all thine own thou madest me;
With rose-wreaths I entwine thy head
So dear, so dead.
This is Love’s inmost place, where we
Learned and with madness learned again
And knew Love’s passionate agony
That wasteth me.
Now is thy room and mine Death’s room,
And this our bed (O burning kiss!)
Is made Death’s icy bed. The tomb
Shrouds it in gloom.
* * * * *