The Winged Beetle

212 LE VIN DE L’ASSASSIN MY wife is dead, and I am free ! Now I can drink my whole week’s wage. I used to come home stony—she Tore my nerves with her cries of rage. I am as happy as a king : The air is pure ; the lark’s astir— We had just such another spring The year I fell in love with her. The dreadful thirst that parches me Craves wine, wine, wine to loose its clutch : Wine, wine enough to brim with glee Her grave—and that is saying much. I threw her body down the well ! The little wall around that ran I pushed upon her as she fell. —I will forget her if I can ! By all the oaths of tenderness Whose tendrils nothing may unbind, And to bring back the enchanteress Love to the days when she was kind.