Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/148

 And away with thy kisses; My heart waxes sick, As thy red lips, like worms, Travel over my cheek!

Ha! press me no more with That passionless hand, 'Tis whiter than milk, or The foam on the strand; 'Tis softer than down, or The silken-leafed flower; But colder than ice thrills Its touch at this hour. Like the finger of Death From cerements unrolled, Thy hand on my heart falls Dull, clammy, and cold.

Nor bend o'er my pillow— Thy raven black hair O'ershadows my brow with A deeper despair; These ringlets thick falling Spread fire through my brain,