now at last the third of the vassals
surrenders her glad breath; and in the temple I the priestess
turn my dark cloak to shining bridal veils. o Death;
o Master of this blood —

in moments of weakness I have shied from your love. forgive
your little bird’s transgression, forgive the weakness
of her too-proud veins. Life,

laugh-eyed Life with his cheeks all in roses, is still
a ripe fruit in her eyes, for all the misfortune and poisons he
so skillfully conceals in his sleeves. o:
you must understand —

this soul has known you tender always. alas, enough of sins —
let us talk merry, my Lord, let us talk over offerings
worshipers have sent in by sail

from cities far and foam-flung. here:
take from my hand the red of wolfberry, the swell of quince;
take the chalice of spiced wine, matched to my heart
in tone if not in sweetness.

ask your forerunners, your gilt vassals, to sit by us at the table,
cushioned on places of high honour. they, too, have
been beloved to these eyes,

for all their fire, for all the sorrow.