I shall die soon, I know.
This thing is in my blood.
It will not let me go.
It saps my cells for food.
It soaks my nights in sweat
And breaks my days in pain.
No hand or drug can treat
These limbs for love or gain.
Love was the strange first cause
That bred grief in its seed,
And gain knew its own laws—
To fix its place and breed.
He whom I love, thank God,
Won’t speak of hope or cure.
It would not do me good.
He sees that I am sure.
He knows what I have read
And will not bring me lies.
He sees that I am dead.
I read it in his eyes.
How am I to go on—
How will I bear this taste,
My throat cased in white spawn—
These hands that shake and waste?
Stay by my steel ward bed
And hold me where I lie.
Love me when I am dead
And do not let me die.
Juvenilia 