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."