The Death Of Lizzie Siddal

That's where most people go wrong.
Just let them meet a daunting challenge in their
lives, and watch them curl up helplessly,
like Dante Gabriel did. He succumbed
to mental paralysis, it seemed that
he'd lose his will to live.
                                
                                Oh yes, Lizzie                                  
was his great passion. He loved her
madly 'til she died. But loved her or not,
he did little enough to keep her alive.
He was mortified, remorse unmanned
him. He knew he had lusted after younger
flesh, he knew what pain he'd caused her.
His ears were ringing with all the complaining
                              she never did.

(Only the dead sleep sound,
no matter who disturbs their bed.)

An anguish of guilt consumed him,
his tears sprinkled her mortal remains.
She lay in her casket, the gorgeous
pre-Raphaelite bloom that he had made
of her youth and beauty seemed scarcely
faded. Not only a painter, remember,
a poet too. The poet told him what
he should do. He placed the journal
with his verse beneath her copper hair.

His words would be buried with their muse.