What remains,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain? …
My lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn …
[Then] we shall know what the darkness discovers,
If the grave-pit be shallow or deep;
And our fathers of old, and our dead lovers,
We shall know if they sleep not or sleep.