IV
I saw a dead corpse lying on the floor
Of a tomb; worms were in its woman’s head,
Its black flesh lay about it shred on shred,
And the dead things slept in its bosom hoar.
And evermore inside that loathed door,
It turn’d itself as one upon a bed,
It turn’d itself as one whom sleep hath fled,
As one that the sweet pangs of passion bore.
And from its passionate mouth’s corrupted sore,
And from its lips that are no longer red,
Came forth love’s accents; and it spake, and said.
—The Pleiades and night’s noon-hours are o’er,
And I am left alone in wearyhead.
And in its heart the worms lie evermore.