My songs like wounded birds, faIl
At thy feet, O darling. Pick up all
Those bleeding birds in your breast
Tenderly and let them meet their eternal rest
At thy bosom, a death beautiful and serene.
Borne on the wings of music they were seen
Flying in the sky when the arrow of thine eyes Pierced them:
And with their dying notes there
did arise
A new flood tide of songs, O my hunter
Thou brought for me a taste of nectar
Shrouded in death’s melancholy.
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