or, Psyche at the Genius of Death:
These days are fleeing us,
be like the Sea,
who stirs in darkness
but by Moonlight be —
My dreaming lover
of deathless sway,
kiss me now to keep
immortality at bay —
And those who wonder
why Winter cries,
why the arrow whistles
as it slices and flies,
You catch hold, quiver
at the hitting of the mark
for the brief but total glimpse
of light, and then, of dark.