FicWad

Death, since I have looked on thee,
No mortal maid is fair to me.

All of them are too dark of cheek,
When it is thy pale glory I seek.

None of them have half so fair
A mane as thy white shroud of hair.

All of them are too fat or thin,
Not holding thy slenderness within.

None of them have thy fair face,
Full of menace and of grace.

All of them are fit to wife,
Not, as thou art, to take life.

None of them have thy faint touch,
Luring without pressing overmuch.

All of them are fit to love,
Not to adore like God above.

None of them have thine eyes true,
Fierce and shining and perilous blue.

Death, since I have looked on thee,
No mortal maid is fair to me.

Come, put on thy bridal gown
Of plague and fever and spider down.

Wear thine hair on thine head bound,
And with light thou wilt be crowned.

Come, share the poisoned cup with me;
Of hemlock and nightshade our cake be.

And when I lift and part thy veil,
Take me in thine arms so pale,

And, there being nothing to be said,
We shall lie in our grave, our bed,

And I will there take my wedded bliss:
From thy burning cold lips receive a kiss,

And die- and in the arms of thee, my wife,
Shall rot and join thee in true life.