The Winged Beetle

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 ;