Terrible beauty has cool cloth
On her forehead, on her eyes;
Never larva of the moth
Spins here his enterprise.

Lazarus in his death-hood slept,
Bedded warm in balméd wool.
Till he stirred, till he stept
Tottering and beautiful.

Let your altar steam amid
Smoking wine and weep and go:
Christ under his coverlid
Knew a wound you'll never know.