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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 is
sped;
He hath not another dart;
Go–carry him to
his dark deathbed;
Bury him in the cold, cold heart–
Love is dead.
O truest love! art thou forlorn,
And
unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles
Forgotten, and thine
innocent joy?
Shall hollow-hearted apathy,
The
cruellest form of perfect scorn,
With languor of most
hateful smiles,
For ever write,
In the withered
light
Of the tearless eye,
And epitaph that all
may spy?
No! sooner she herself shall die.
For
her the showers shall not fall,
Nor the round sun
shine that shineth to all;
Her light shall into
darkness change;
For her the green grass shall not
spring,
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds
sing,
Till Love have his full revenge.
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