Bitter woman,
you speak of things to come;
your arms hang limp,
a lock of hair sticks to your bloodless brow.
You smile, and—o, those rosy lips
enticed many a bee for honeyed sips
and dazzled many a butterfly!
Your moon-eyes shine,
your gaze is bent on things afar.
And is your gentle chiding
for a man now dead?
Or do you grant pardon to the living for
your weariness
and for the shame upon your head?