With a black streamer fasten our guitar
For mourning is the colour we must choose—
Black as my horse, the darker for a star,
Who shoals the glittering mackerel of his thews
In one great midnight wave—to match your hair.
(As he is to the ground, it to the air,
Liquid and light, a traveller in fire.)
Then pour the wine; for whose one ruby spark,
Its gloom is more religious, deep, and dark,
And turn on me the eyes that never tire,
Darker than wine is, darker than your hair,
Yet burnished by the same eternal morning.
I am in love with black; and we go mourning
(Girl, horse, guitar, and wine) for buried care.