Upon the margent of the gloaming’s wane, I tread a measure with a ghostly fere, Whose icy mien doth beckon and constrain, To lead me where the Stygian depths appear. Each pulse-beat tolls a knell for joys of yore, Whilst every gyre doth filch a fleeting breath; I languish in the thraldom I adore, Within the chill embracement of my Death. My vernal bloom to hoary frost is cast, As life's bright pageant wanes to shadows deep; The gaudy mask is rent away at last, And I am waked from out my mortal sleep. Then hie me to the void with soft accord, Where Life and Death a single bliss afford. Each pulse doth mark a measure of this dance, Where every turn must rob a fleeting breath, And in the fever of that dark romance, I spin, enravished, in the arms of Death. The fleeting sands do shimmer, blur, and fade— As youth yields down to th’ olden waltz’s grace— Yet in this carnival of dread bewrayed I find my verity, my destined place Then let me glide where sorrow’s soft kiss sears, Where life and death commix in tender spheres.
