A SERPENT is bound about her head,
Her eyes are closed, but she is not dead;
She is not dead, and she doth not sleep,
Too weary to wake and too worn to weep
Although her agony is deep,
She hath not wherewithal to slake
The pressing pain of her eyes, that ache,
Her mouth is writhen with the pain
Of one that shall not smile again.
O thou, whose life is thy delight,
Whose eyes are brilliantly bright,
Who sleepest sweetly every night,
With the light of youth upon thee shed
As an aureole round thy glad head
With benedictions garlanded;
Whose feet flash flame and whose lips drop myrrh;
Wilt thou turn from thy way to pity her?
If thou shouldst touch her tired eyes
Perchance she would soften her stifled sighs,
And thine healing hand work a miracle,
And a torrent of tears from her worn eyes well,
And in the glad stream her sad soul should steep,
And the touch of thy lips should send her sleep.