XLIV
If I may have it when it’s deadI will contented be;If just as soon as breath is outIt shall belong to me,
Until they lock it in the grave,‘T is bliss I cannot weigh,For though they lock thee in the grave,Myself can hold the key.
Think of it, lover! I and theePermitted face to face to be;After a life, a death we’ll say,—For death was that, and this is thee.