Kiss the image in a stranger's casket What has become of the splendor? Twelve strokes have fallen And the faintly heard breath That argued my beauty A ruined soul bewailing Where the angels allow their wings bewilted To droop, to bow to the bosom of a friend Kiss me tenderly, savage God My lips are dumb to speak a thousand inane words And how sweet a toil All is dark, all is blackened All, but an upturned face