Eurydice

Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,And hardly for the storm and ruin shedCan even thine eyes be certain of her headWho never passed out of thy spirit’s eyes,But stood and shone before them in such wiseAs when with love her lips and hands were fed,And with mute mouth out of the dusty deadStrove to make answer when thou bad’st her rise.

Yet viper-stricken must her lifeblood feelThe fang that stung her sleeping, the foul germEven when she wakes of hell’s most poisonous worm,Though now it writhe beneath her wounded heel.Turn yet, she will not fade nor fly from thee;Wait, and see hell yield up Eurydice.