Keep

Sleep, my love, in Rappaccini’s Garden
and I shall, before your sweet lips harden,
tell you a story, beneath the cypress
and lay on your lips a sepulchral kiss.

And when at last you lay your head to rest
I shall place three blossoms upon your breast:
Narcissus, Iris, and perhaps Wolf’s Bane,
to wither with you, as from want of rain.

Sleep will descend on a raven’s black wing
and as you drift off, a lullaby I’ll sing
of pomegranates, ash, and angel’s wings
of shadows that stalk, of sorrow that clings.

Sleep well, my love, and whilst you drift and dream
The Reaper shall come and the scythe shall gleam
And when you are gone, I’ll mourn you all day
I’ll weep the River Styx, to wash you away.

Shrouded in tears, the vulture shall not see
your chill, pale flesh as you drift out to sea.
And as you pass by, the willows shall weep,
the ivy reach out, your sweet corpse to keep.

But neither tree, nor earth, nor tomb shall claim
the one who has died, the lone one who came
so heartlessly to spurn me on this dark day.
If I could not keep you, then neither shall they.