Serena’s sleeping in her silver land.
You watch how white and wasted lies her form?
Remember how last night you stole her hand
And told her how you’d guide her through the storm;
Through raucous darkness led her down the lane,
And took her on a whim to your back door,
You pushed her past the threshold’s portal vein
As if you thought she wanted of you more.
She told you straight that something was amiss—
But did you listen, coward? lusty fool?
You stooped and overcame her with a kiss;
Ne’er again did she protest at your fond call.
Now comes Serena’s grey sepulchre mould:
Let’s weep for fault of mine that made her cold.