The Mandrake Root
The mandrake root! Your face is grey as iron;
Your eyes are chilled with something dead and bleak;
You have the pride in sorrow that Lord Byron
Enchanted London with. And for a week
You've fumbled through the leaves and touched the quick
Of this despairing plant and felt it crack
Between your nervous fingers. Are you sick?—
For mandrakes are an aphrodisiac.
O, come. This will not do. The feeble note
You play is like a drop within a cup
No louder than the pulses in your throat
That bid you now to pull this damned thing up.
One root is in your heart; the other, in
The heart you filled and emptied with a curse…
A sturdy pull and everything that's been
Will merely echo that it might be worse.
The mandrake root! O pull it up forever
And fling its bleeding leaves upon the ground,
And understand that Time is like a river
That washes hollow wounds without a sound.