Kiss the image in a stranger's casket

What has become of the splendor?

Twelve strokes have fallen

And the faintly heard breath

That argued my beauty

A ruined soul bewailing

Where the angels allow their wings bewilted

To droop, to bow to the bosom of a friend

Kiss me tenderly, savage God

My lips are dumb to speak a thousand inane words

And how sweet a toil

All is dark, all is blackened

All, but an upturned face