THE FLOWERING CORPSE
So still she lies in this closed place apart,Her feet grown fragile for the ghostly tryst;Her pulse no longer striking in her wrist,Nor does its echo wander through her heart.Over the body and the quiet headLike stately ferns above an austere tomb,Soft hairs blow; and beneath her armpits bloomThe drowsy passion flowers of the dead.
So still she lies in this closed place apart,Her feet grown fragile for the ghostly tryst;Her pulse no longer striking in her wrist,Nor does its echo wander through her heart.Over the body and the quiet headLike stately ferns above an austere tomb,Soft hairs blow; and beneath her armpits bloomThe drowsy passion flowers of the dead.
So still she lies in this closed place apart,Her feet grown fragile for the ghostly tryst;Her pulse no longer striking in her wrist,Nor does its echo wander through her heart.
So still she lies in this closed place apart,
Her feet grown fragile for the ghostly tryst;
Her pulse no longer striking in her wrist,
Nor does its echo wander through her heart.
Over the body and the quiet headLike stately ferns above an austere tomb,Soft hairs blow; and beneath her armpits bloomThe drowsy passion flowers of the dead.
Over the body and the quiet head
Like stately ferns above an austere tomb,
Soft hairs blow; and beneath her armpits bloom
The drowsy passion flowers of the dead.