I found a corpse, with glittering hair,
Of a woman whose face, tho' dead,
The white death in it had left still fair,
Too fair for an earthly bed!
So I loosen'd each fold of her bright curls, roll'd
From forehead to foot in a gush of red gold,
And kiss'd her lips till her lips were red,
And warm and light on her eyelids white
I breath'd, and press'd unto mine her breast,
Till the blue eyes oped, and the breast grew warm.
And this woman, behold! arose up bold,
And, lifelike lifting a wilful arm,
With steady feet from the winding sheet
Stepp'd forth to a mutter'd charm.

And now beside me, whatever betide me,
This woman is, night and day.
For she cleaves to me so, that, wherever I go
She is with me the whole of the way.
And her eyes are so bright in the dead of the night,
That they keep me awake with dread;
While my life-blood pales in my veins, and fails,
Because her red lips are so red
That I fear 'tis my heart she must eat for her food;
And it makes my whole flesh creep
To think she is drinking and draining my blood,
Unawares, if I chance to sleep.

It were better for me, ere I came nigh her,—
This corpse,—ere I looked upon her,—
Had they burn'd my body in penal fire
With a sorcerer's dishonour.
For, when the devil hath made his lair
In the living eyes of a dear dead woman,
(To bind a man's strength by her golden hair,
And break his heart, if his heart be human),
Is there any penance, or any prayer,
That may save the sinner whose soul he tries
To catch in the curse of the constant stare
Of those heartbreaking bewildering eyes,—
Comfortless, cavernous glowworms that glare
From the gaping grave where a dead hope lies?
It is more than the soul of a man may bear.
For the misery worst of all miseries
Is Desire eternally feeding Despair
On the flesh, or the blood, that forever supplies
Life more than enough to keep fresh in repair
The death ever dying, which yet never dies.

Amorphous is the mind; its quality
Is in its fibre, not its form;
If it desire to fly it puts on wings,
Awkwardly, not like a bird
At first (though later); the rustle of a thing half-heard
Can twist it as iron at times is twisted by a wind-storm or word after word
Can pummel it for hours yet leave it like a leaf on a still day unstirred.

But a man’s habit clings
And he will wear tomorrow what today he wears.

The mind is happy in the air, happy to be up there with
Learning feathers, but the man loathes it.

The mind cries “Up! Oh, up!
Oh, let me try to fly!
Look! I can lift you!” but he smothers its cry;
Out of thrift, and fear of next year's feathers, he clothes it in last years things
And tries his best to button across a keelshaped breast a coat knobbed out by new wings.