To Death, of his lady

…from the quills of the dead white poets

Francois Villon (1431 – 1463)

 Death, of thee do I make my moan,

Who hadst my lady away from me,

Nor will assuage thine enmity

Till with her life thou hast mine own;

For since that hour my strength has flown.

Lo! what wrong was her life to thee,

Death?

Two we were, and the heart was one;

Which now being dead, dead I must be,

Or seem alive as lifelessly

As in the choir the painted stone,

Death!

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