by Eugene Lee-Hamilton
O Inez, canst thou hear from underground,
Sweet bride of nard and myrrh, the loud bells ring?
Wilt thou not be my Queen, now I am King,
And leave thy vault, embalmed one, to be crowned?
Oh, leave me not alone, when all around
Are full of mirth, and I the sole sad thing.
Arise, arise, dead flower: it is Spring;
Oh, let Death's frost, with Winter's, be unbound!
In coronation robes shalt thou be dressed,
And on the rippling gold that was thy hair
A royal circlet's meaner gold shall rest.
The gems thy eyes outshone, thou now shalt wear
In royal pomp upon thy throbless breast,
Where they may blaze, undimmed by thy dim stare.
Last updated January 14, 2019