I envy you your chance of death, how I envy you this. I am more covetous of him even than of your glance, I wish more from his presence though he torture me in a grasp terrible, intense. Though he clasp me in an embrace that is set against my will, and rack me with his measure, effortless yet full of strength, and slay me in that most horrible contest, still, how I envy you your chance. Though he pierce me with his lust, iron, fever and dust, though beauty is slain when I perish, I envy you death. What is beauty to me? has she not slain me enough, have I not cried in agony of love, birth, hate, in pride crushed? What is left after this? what can death loose in me after your embrace? your touch, your limbs are more terrible to do me hurt. What can death mar in me that you have not? |