Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/229

 So—till he seize me with a shout, Tear me, and sear me with his breath; Yea, till he tread my heart quite out, And give me Death!

And if not Death!— O all the night I shall be free To steep me and to stifle me In dew, and cool dew-dropping hair, In every shadowy haunt and lair Where most forgetfulness may be; And, all on flame, my soul shall flare Into the chillest of the dark, And there be quenchéd, spark by spark. To the last faintest spark of me.

I will be wasted as a spoil On all things of the woods and winds; Earned with no eagerness or toil I will be for the first who finds—