UNTITLED
To die, to sleep,
No more.
To die, to sleep,
To sleep perchance to dream,
For in that sleep
what dreams may come
that hold your face to candlelight
as the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.
To die, to sleep,
perchance to dream our moments once,
and once again.
Perchance to dream your touch
your taste,
to dream your open arms
(that undiscovered country from whose borne
I would not want dismissal,
but leap to un-talked of and unseen.)
To kiss first thy shaded eyes and tender warmth,
then loose thy conscience to the night
and morning after.
To take up arms against thy touch of skin
and ner oppose nor end them.
But now; a last embrace! and, lips,
(oh you the heavy doors of breath)
seal with a righteous kiss
a last conspiracy; the desire and wish
that remains to stay alive in death.
So eyes may never look their last
upon your face,
nor steal their final taste.
Again, again sweet love
and in thy orisons
be all our sins remembered.