Suttee

 LAMP of my life, the lips of Death 
Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath; 
Naught shall revive thy vanished spark .
 .
 .
 
Love, must I dwell in the living dark? 


Tree of my life, Death's cruel foot 
Hath crushed thee down to thy hidden root; 
Nought shall restore thy glory fled .
 .
 .
 
Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead? 


Life of my life, Death's bitter sword 
Hath severed us like a broken word, 
Rent us in twain who are but one .
 .
 
Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone?

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