64
And away with thy kisses;
My heart waxes sick,
As thy red lips, like worms,
Travel over my cheek!
Ha! press me no more with
That passionless hand,
'Tis whiter than milk, or
The foam on the strand;
'Tis softer than down, or
The silken-leafed flower;
But colder than ice thrills
Its touch at this hour.
Like the finger of Death
From cerements unrolled,
Thy hand on my heart falls
Dull, clammy, and cold.
Nor bend o'er my pillow—
Thy raven black hair
O'ershadows my brow with
A deeper despair;
These ringlets thick falling
Spread fire through my brain,
