Chrysilla

O GODDESS, when the sands at last are run,
Let me not see slow Time at my bed-head
Cutting without regret or tears the thread
Of an importunate life too long outspun.

Arm rather Love, who from mine hour of birth
Hath hated me, and who were fain to make,
With his last arrow, from the heart he brake
Its pale, thin crimson flow upon the earth.

But no! Send me my Youth at eventide,
Silent, and naked, lovely as a bride,
And let her shed the petals of a rose

Into the fountain weeping me farewell,
And I shall need no dart nor scythe, but close
Mine eyes, and wander to the asphodel.