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.