If I believed through death myself released,
Of loving thoughts which bind me to this earth,
Already placed would be my hands inert,
Each dull limb burdenless beneath the peat;
But since I fear a passageway would bend
'Twixt crying eyes, from war to bloody war,
So I remain, alas, behind a door,
Amidst a serried path of doubtful end.
Enough time's laps'd for final bowstrings drawn
In arrows merciless, tint'd in their aim
With others' blood, nay bathed, my whole to breach;
Yet deafest Love I still cannot beseech,
Who left me color'd in his painted frame,
Forgetful now to call me to his pawn.