How similar they are, these two
Beautiful young figures, though one is
far
Paler, sterner than the other; one might
almost say, far more than
distinguished than him
Who held me in his arms - how gentle was
His
smile, how blessed his gaze. It might have been
The poppies wreathing his brow
touched my brow too
And strangely fragrant drove all pain from my soul.
but such reprieve is brief. I will be cured
Only when he, the other brother,
so
Serious and pale, lowers his torch. Sleep
Is good, Death better;
of course the best would be
Never to have been born.