Clench thine eyes now, -- 'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake, -- Thou may'st not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee? -- or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? -- Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh? -- Or thine own blood's anointing, girl? ... ... Now, silence; for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All is now still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. |