LE VIN DE L’ASSASSIN 
213 
 
I begged of her a darkling tryst 
 One night—a night of wind and rain. 
She came, poor silly devil !  Pist !   
 We are all more or less insane. 
 
She was still beautiful, although 
 So tired.  Still sweet !  still pale !  still shy !   
I loved her overmuch—and so 
 “ Out of this life you go ! ”  said I. 
 
No one can understand me.  None 
 Of these dull drunkards could divine 
In nightmares this that I have done 
 —To make a winding-sheet of wine !   
 
This black invulnerable vice 
 —Engines of iron !  towers of stone !— 
For winter’s blight or summer’s spice 
 True love, true love hath never known— 
 
True love with black inchauntments filled, 
 Its hellish rout of shrieks and groans, 
Its phials of poison death-distilled, 
 Its rattling chains and skeletons !   
 
Here am I, free, alone—alone !   
 I shall be drunk, dead drunk, to-night. 
Then I shall slip to the cold stone 
 Without remorse, without affright ;