O Love's lute heard about the lands of death,
Left hanged upon the trees that were therein;
O Love and Time and Sin,
Three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath,
Three lovers, each one evil spoken of;
O smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine
Came softer with her praise;
Abide a little for our lady's love.
The kisses of her mouth were more than wine,
And more than peace the passage of her days.
From "A Ballad of Death" by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Read the complete poem here. (Don't miss the last stanza, my favorite.)
Self-Portrait with Death as a Fiddler, Arnold Böcklin, 1871-74
1 comment:
These are too exquisite to be believed.
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