An Ode to the Angel of Death
What manner of an angel be
my love, who standeth here?
Such beauty did I never see
in any Earthly year.
What mighty magic has she cast
to make me love her so,
that if I should for aeons last,
still with her I shall go?
What wonders lay beneath her breast
and weigh my heart like stones?
These eyes of mine did never rest
on any sweeter bones.
What better end have I to meet
than ‘fore my Lady break me
to lift me in her embrace sweet
and to her darkness take me?
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