A KNOCK is at her door, but she is weak; <br />Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheek; <br />She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known, <br />And knows that he will find her all alone. <br />So opens he the door, and with soft tread <br />Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed. <br />His soft hand on her dewy head he lays. <br />A strange white light she gives him for his gaze. <br />Then, looking on the glory of her charms, <br />He crushes her resistless in his arms. <br />Stand back! look not upon this bold embrace, <br />Nor view the calmness of the wanton's face; <br />With joy unspeakable and 'bated breath, <br />She keeps her last, long liaison with death!<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-67/
