Death, whose guise is end to sorrow,
sells salvation 'til tomorrow.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

Morning steps out in its gilded gown.

I'm made of lead
as I'm laid in bed,
heavy-laden.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.