Moriturus Te Salutat

These words that may not reach your heart Are wrung from mine in bitter pain, You, reading, but despise their art That is not art but blood—in vain The blood is ebbing from my heart. The passions of my tortured mind Trouble but lightly your calm soul— No ugliness besets the blind— A shadow on darkness is the whole Of my misfortune in your mind. And yet I love you that you say You will not love me—truth is hard, ’Twere so much easier to give way And stay the death-stroke, my reward— Courage, brave heart! ’tis Love you slay.