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Theatre Of Tragedy - On Whom The Moon Doth Shine
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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 landéd,
And with the shadows blendéd
The tendermost silken mourn.;
In which the light hidden is -
Yon Hell's brazen doors
Wrothfully it trieth to push.

Then, lo! the Bleak Death,
Serpent-like 'twixt the breasts crept:
Hush'd with a gasp of life's breath,
Together red tears we wept - in vain,
And pass'd the procession of dancers dead -
As in darkness were we lock'd in wed:
I kiss'd the Seven Angels of Death.

And Hell open'd its doors,
Yet what was 'fore my eyes
But if not the brightest light.