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?