Theatre Of Tragedy

O soft embalmer of ye still midnight,
Allow me thee to adown
Of an sort thou fancieth;
Each holdeth its own fancy, I say -
Yet the pleasure we partake in
Was caus'd by the fang'd grin,
Save!, do I for him anger hold?:
Nay - I knew I was fey!
Had I what it taketh, I would do;
I sense - I cannot sense,
I am - yet! I am not -
Once I kiss'd the image
Of the Seven Angels of Death.
Yet as thou so didst,
On my lips a kiss landed,
And with the shadow blended
The tendermost silken mourn;
In whic
h the light hidden is -