Analysis of Death and Her Lover

I think about her in the dark,
with dread that I deplore,
and when I cry with bitter tears,
she smiles and asks for more.

With murderers, my feet will march,
an act of noble war,
when graves we think our souls will meet,
to her, I do implore.

And when it’s my turn to fulfill
the acts I’m sorry for,
she lifts me in her slender arms,
and loves me evermore.