Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/134

 To her as you my weary tale Of double life and pain; And thawed her fingers chill and pale Upon my burning brain;— That daintiest piece of Flesh on earth, I welcomed her to all my mirth.

And then I pressed her icy hand Within my burning palm, And told her tales of that far land, Of sunshine, flowers, and balm; I told her of the damp, dark hole, The fetters and the tree, And of the slimy things that stole O'er shuddering flesh so free: Yea, of the Bearded Ghastliness, That sat in the sun's loveliness.

I welcomed her, I welcome thee, To sit upon this stone, And meditate all night with me, On ages that are gone: To dream again each marvellous dream, Of passion and of truth,