Since I Cannot Persuade you from this Mood

Since I cannot persuade you from this mood

Of pale preoccupation with the dead, / Not for my comfort nor for your own good

Shift your concern to living bones instead; Since that which Helen did and ended Troy

Is more than I can do though I be warm, / Have up your buried girls, egregious boy, / And stand with them against the unburied storm.

When you lie wasted and your blood runs thin, / And what's to do must with dispatch be done, / Call Cressid, call Elaine, call Isolt in! - More bland the ichor of a ghost should run

Along your dubious veins than the rude sea

Of passion pounding all day long in me.