His eyes in eclipse,
Pale cold his lips;
The light of his hopes unfed.
Mute his tongue,
His bow unstrung
With the tears he hath shed.
Backward drooping
His graceful head;
Love is dead:
His last arrow sped,
He hath not another dart;
Go - carry him to his deathbed:
Bury him in the cold, cold heart.
Love is dead.
O, truest love!
Art thou forlorn
And unrevenged ? Thy pleasant wiles
Forgotten,
Thine innocent joy?
Shall hollow hearted apathy,
The cruellest form
Of perfect scorn,
With languor of most hateful smiles,
Forever write
In the withered light
Of the tearless eye
An epitaph that all may spy?
Love is dead.
No! sooner She Herself shall die…
Love wept and spread his sheeny wings for flight,
Yet, ere He parted, said, "This hour is thine:
Thou art the shadow of Life, as the tree stands in the sun,
And shadows all beneath in the light of great Eternity."
