Naked on Cashmere

"To Memory" by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge  Strange Power, I know not what thou art,Murderer or mistress of my heart.I know I'd rather meet the blowOf my most unrelenting foeThan live---as now I live---to beSlain twenty times a day by thee. Yet, when I would command thee hence,Thou mockest at the vain pretence,Murmuring in mine ear a songOnce loved, alas! forgotten long;And on my brow I feel a kissThat I would rather die than miss. xx Atticus@atticuspoetrywww.atticuspoetry.com