Anguish and delight are now
Coiled in darkness on the bough,
And iron time deflowers spring,
Secretly, the secret thing.
Mind and body, as they must,
Invent a terminus to lust,
Preserving the despair they make. …
Pray the Lord my soul to take. …
When this incontinent despair
Turns sick with love in sunless air,
A firmer bed than bed of stone
Take up my cast of flesh and bone,
A sharper song than rue or willow
Weep me dead upon my pillow.
I who strangled life with sleep
Pray the Lord my soul to keep. …
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