When I am dead, I'll plague you every way,
haunt you by night and follow you by day,
pluck at your arm along the shouting street
and watch you turn, a silent ghost to greet.
Invisible as the wind that turns the mill
my naked essence will pervade you still;
I'll mix myself with every breath you take,
creep through your dream, oppress you when you wake.
In all those vain assemblies you frequent
I'll be the night-winged thought that came and went
and left your laughter dangling in mid-air,
a broken stump to make the revellers stare.
I'll be the mirror where you watch the days
gather upon you like a smoky haze;
you will not see me in the unchanging glass
watching your beauty like an epoch pass.
When I am dead, and sleeping all alone,
your love will lie like strychnine in the bone;
that poison prisoned fast until world's end
will no more murder do to foe or friend.