I found a corpse, with golden hair,

     Of a maiden seven months dead.

But the face, with the death in it, still was fair,

     And the lips with their love were red.

     Rose leaves on a snow-drift shed,

     Blood-drops by Adonis bled,

     Doubtless were not so red.

 

I combed her hair into curls of gold,

     And I kissed her lips till her lips were warm

And I bathed her body in moonlight cold,

     Till she grew to a living form:

Till she stood up bold to a magic of old,

     And walked to a muttered charm—

     Life-like, without alarm.

 

And she walks by me, and she talks by me,

     Evermore, night and day;

For she loves me so, that, wherever I go,

     She follows me all the way—

     This corpse—you would almost say

     There pined a soul in the clay.

 

Her eyes are so bright at the dead of night

     That they keep me awake with dread;

And my life-blood fails in my veins, and pales

     At the sight of her lips so red:

For her face is as white as the pillow by night

     Where she kisses me on my bed:

     All her gold hair outspread—

     Neither alive nor dead.

 

I would that this woman’s head

     Were less golden about the hair:

I would her lips were less red,

     And her face less deadly fair.

     For this is the worst to bear—

     How came that redness there?

 

’Tis my heart, be sure, she eats for her food;

     And it makes one’s whole flesh creep

To think that she drinks and drains my blood

     Unawares, when I am asleep.

     How else could those red lips keep

     Their redness so damson-deep?

 

There’s a thought like a serpent, slips

     Ever into my heart and head,—

There are plenty of women, alive and human,

     One might woo, if one wished, and wed—

Women with hearts, and brains,—ay, and lips

     Not so very terribly red.

 

But to house with a corpse—and she so fair!

With that dim, unearthly, golden hair,

     And those sad, serene, blue eyes,

With their looks from who knows where,

     Which Death has made so wise,

          With the grave’s own secret there—

          It is more than a man can bear!

 

It were better for me, ere I came nigh her,

     This corpse—ere I looked upon her,

Had they burned my body in flame and fire

     With a sorcerer’s dishonor.

For when the Devil hath made his lair,

     And lurks in the eyes of a fair young woman,

(To grieve a man’s soul with her golden hair

     And break his heart, if his heart be human,)

          Would not a saint despair

          To be saved by fast or prayer

          From perdition made so fair?