Till the blood won’t rise and the tears won’t stop
Till the well is drawn till without a drop
Till the sword bloody to the sheath is brought
Till then she won’t stop
Till the cup has dried and to the lips has brought
A slight twitch and fervor hot
Till the tremble is seen and the favor sought
Till then she won’t stop
Till the wound is deep and red and wrought
By trenches of pain yet to clot
Yet to bury beneath the burning hot
Till then she won’t stop
Till the giants are leashed and the wolves betroth
Till the slayers are reduced to the wounded lot
Till the eyes have mustered the last tear drop
Till then she won’t stop
Till every memory is not
Wrapped in woven silk cloth
Presented with ceremony at very thought
Till the little chase is not
Just a foolish childish plot
Till fingers not in thorns caught
The roses pruned and perfect got
Till the evening does not
Last the night and cease to stop
And every fancy, every whim, every thought
Not to a pedestal brought
Till then she won’t stop
