Skin as pale as lilies,
now livid with interrupted bloom.
Bruises as dark as that Irish lake,
five of them, of a brutish nightshade hue.
Body as limp as the towel they used to rub you warm to no avail,
dotted over with dirt, your shirt torn through.
Eyes as vacant as the echo in a tomb,
once blue before, now glazed over with vitreous dew.
Oh Clerval, how I have forsaken you.