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Mary Elizabeth Coleridge - To Memory
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Strange Power, I know not what thou art, 
Murderer or mistress of my heart. 
I know I`d rather meet the blow 
Of my most unrelenting foe 
Than live — as now I live — to be 
Slain twenty times a day by thee. 

Yet, when I would command thee hence, 
Thou mockest at the vain pretence, 
Murmuring in mine ear a song 
Once loved, alas! forgotten long; 
And on my brow I feel a kiss 
That I would rather die than miss
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