“Yes, she is dead
And what more can be said?”
Those were the words you left for me to use
But I refuse--
Proudly you ask to be
Kept in simplicity.
Only--revenge is mine--
I’ll kill you with a shrine,
Festooned with all the gleaming words that hide
Your meaning and offend your pride.
You see, I’m still your thief,
A beggar of belief.
And I can steal from you
A million lies made true.
She was so beautiful! If you must know
Her body darted, but her smile was slow,
Her eyes dissolved into a hidden glow,
A burning lining of eternal snow.
You who liked words untrimmed and stark and plain,
Who really thought that vanities were vain,
Where is it now, your proud austerity?
Your frugal folly of virginity?
You are no longer free, for you belong
To every lilting cadence of my song.
You, who despised the fripperies of rhyme,
Who flouted space, and disregarded time,
Who thought each lovely folly was a crime--
Unlit, implacable and yet sublime!
Now that you’re dead, now I can warm you with
The glowing weavings of a gleaming myth;
Into your peace I’ll plunge a thousand swords
Of burning phantasies and coloured words.
I’ll show no mercy now that you are mine,
Your very self dissolved in my design.