Vyacheslav Ivanov (b. 1866)

OF funerals, the saddest

Is love’s that dies unanswered.

The soul has two to bury:

The soul of the beloved

And its own other selfhood.

And a third enters, living,

The funeral flame that wraps them;

His wings a yoke has weighted:

Him the wise lips of lovers

Call in their kisses, Eros,

And gods: the Resurrector.