I lay my length in the box
   to sleep a whole revolution of Saturn
whose lid slides across, inches above
   a few light words only in sport
crunch home the screws
   for ever eyes closed bright
and still viewing
   syrup infused in wine
a study in mortis imago

I have my beloved souvenir
   a rose-bud to my heart
but this is the violation of letters
    of what man is capable
too tremblingly pressed
   by wildest wishes
to supply a connected narrative
   (take, take back the gift
I conversed but with a costume)

Are we any wiser as we grow
   disburthened of gauze and torches
or is it our illusions which change
   one single object in steel or taffety
like your skeleton-key, I see the ceiling
   burnished to prove
what no chemistry can detect
    in four times so many years
tried by a terrible escape