Which of torment is the worst kind of death?
The kind of pain that hurts more than mere pain,
Is it wasted bullets or stolen breath?
Could either these be at all joy’s worst bane?
When they are compared to the black sorrow,
That makes its home in the hearts of dead men,
In whose bodies life does easily show,
But in whose souls all life is ridden.
For they have lost something worth more than life:
The joy that comes from desires of love,
Without which there is nothing but black strife,
And away are all glimmers of hope shoved.
This is the worst of every torment,
The wound only caused by blackest intents.