Mother of the unfortunate, mystic form, <br />Who calm, immutable, like oldest fate, <br />Sittest, where through the sombre swinging gate <br />Moans immemorial life's encircling storm. <br />My heart, sore stricken by grief's leaden arm, <br />Lags like a weary pilgrim knocking late, <br />And sigheth--toward thee staggering with its weight-- <br />Behold Love conquered by thy son, the worm! <br /> <br />He stung him mid the roses' purple bloom, <br />The Rose of roses, yea, a thing so sweet, <br />Haply to stay blind Change's flying feet, <br />And stir with pity the unpitying tomb. <br />Here, take him, cold, cold, heavy and void of breath! <br />Nor me refuse, O Mother almighty, death.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-love-2/
