Suttee

MP of my life, the lips of Death Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath;

Naught shall revive thy vanished spark . . .

Love, must I dwell in the living dark?

Tree of my life,

Death's cruel foot Hath crushed thee down to thy hidden root;

Nought shall restore thy glory fled . . .

Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead?

Life of my life,

Death's bitter sword Hath severed us like a broken word,

Rent us in twain who are but one . .

Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone?