Ii

Lo, now my life is gone unto eclipse Upon thy perilous bosom; lo, I die, Faint with the utter whole of exstasy, With unassuaged lips against thy lips,

That can give no more joy; lo, at the place Of utter joy, lo, at joy's far-off throne, Which none shall reach, with eyes now weary grown, I lie slain at its utmost golden base.

Yea, we have call'd the white stars to behold Our pale and fainting faces sick with joy; Oregal lips that shall death's sting destroy,

I have suck'd bare life's cup upon thy breath! Kiss me to death! Lo, now our lips are cold, Wilt thou not bring new joy, O Death, O Death?