No! It was not well, Zanara, While the fever held its riot -- When the doctors bid be quiet -- That you came to my bed-side In the middle of the night, With your two hands on your heart -- That you pressed on my bed-side In the absence of my bride, And so pressed upon your heart That the blood all thick and blackened, When your long white fingers slackened, Oozed between them to the floor. Oh! This mouldy, gory floor! Then your linen it was moulded, And streaked yellow where it folded, And your bosom it was bare, Which you know was nothing fair In the absence of my bride, Then your heavy, slimy hair, Creeping, clinging round your bosom -- Clammy bosom, blue and bare, Which you did not try to hide. Then your eyes had such a glare, And the smell of death was there, And the spirits that were with you Whistled through the mossy door, And they danced upon my bosom, And they tangled up my hair, And made crosses on the floor. No! All this was nothing fair While the fever held its riot -- When the doctors bid be quiet. It was not my fault, remember, All this life of black disasters -- All this life of dark December -- All this heart-sickness and sadness, Though we both did have our masters, Yours was Love and mine Ambition -- Mine is driving me to -- madness, Yours has drove you to perdition. But some time, if you so will it, When this hot brain is less rabid -- When our masters both are sleeping -- When the storm the stars is keeping, Leave the darkness where they laid you -- Leave the dampness you inhabit -- Leave that yellow, moulded linen -- That dull, sullen, frozen stare, And the cold death in your hair; Then I will no more upbraid you. I will meet you just one minute By the oak-tree, you remember, With the grape-vine tangled in it -- Meet you, while my bride is sleeping -- While the storm the stars is keeping. I will press your bosom gory -- I will tell you one sweet story, With sweet balm and healing in it. But remember, now remember, I can stay there but one minute. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION (B) by WILLIAM BLAKE LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ON GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK, THE TEMPLE, SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN by RICHARD CRASHAW BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE [DECEMBER 2O, 1860] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE MAYFLOWERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE BUILDERS OF THE ARK by MARIA ABDY AN EPISTLE TO CURIO by MARK AKENSIDE BRUCE: HOW AYMER DE VALENCE, AND JOHN OF LORN CHASED THE BRUCE ... by JOHN BARBOUR |