Theatre Of Tragedy

"O soft embalmer of ye still midnight,
Allow me thee to adown,
Of any 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 landйd,
And with the shadows blendйd