Page:Life of William Blake, Pictor ignotus (Volume 2).djvu/21

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silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away. And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold; Oh, why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!