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Poem by Elinor Wylie
Les Lauriers Sont Coupée
Ah, love, within the shadow of the wood The laurels are cut down; some other brows May bear the classic wreath which Fame allows And find the burden honorable and good. Have we not passed the laurels as they stood-- Soft in the veil with which Spring endows The wintry glitter of their woven boughs-- Nor stopped to break the branches while we could? Ah, love, for other brows they are cut down. Thornless and scentless are their stems and flowers, And cold as death their twisted coronal. Sweeter to us the sharpness of this crown; Sweeter the wildest roses which are ours; Sweeter the petals, even when they fall.
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