How sad thine eyes are! Yet have I no power To give thee back thy youth with pleasure rife; Incurably thy heart must ache each hour For love frustrated and frustrated life.
The night wind through the crannies pipes, And in the garret lie Two wretched creatures on the straw, As gaunt as poverty.
And one poor creature speaks and says, "Embrace me with thine arm, And press thy mouth against my mouth, Thy breath will keep me warm."
The other starveling speaks and says, "When I look into thine eyes Pain, cold and hunger disappear, And all my miseries."
They kissed full oft, still more they wept, Clasped hands, sighed deep and fast; They often laughed, they even sang, And both were still at last.
With morning came the coroner, And brought a worthy leech, On either corpse to certify The cause of death of each.
The nipping weather, he affirmed, Had finished the deceased. Their empty stomachs also caused, Or hastened death at last.
He added that when frost sets in 'Tis needful that the blood Be warmed with flannels; one should have, Moreover, wholesome food.
Dumb are the trumpets, cymbals, drums and shawms to-night, The angel shapes engirdled with the sword, About the royal tent keep watch and ward, Six thousand to the left, six thousand to the right.
They guard the king from evil dreams, from death. Behold! a frown across his brow they view. Then all at once, like glimmering flames steel-blue, Twelve thousand brandished swords leap from the sheath.
But back into their scabbards drop the swords Of the angelic host; the midnight pain Hath vanished, the king's brow is smooth again; And hark! the royal sleeper's murmured words:
"O Shulamite, the lord of all these lands am I, This empire is the heritage I bring, For I am Judah's king and Israel's king; But if thou love me not, I languish and I die."
Marked is the likeness 'twixt the beautiful And youthful brothers, albeit one appear Far paler than the other, more serene; Yea, I might almost say, far comelier Than his dear brother, who so lovingly Embraced me in his arms. How tender, soft Seemed then his smile, and how divine his glance! No wonder that the wreath of poppy-flowers About his head brought comfort to my brow, And with its mystic fragrance soothed all pain From out my soul. But such delicious balm A little while could last. I can be cured Completely only when that other youth, The grave, pale brother, drops at last his torch. Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.