Emily Jane Pfeiffer

Two Sonnets

I.

All love-adepts, all faithful hearts who wear
⁠     In love's sweet prime — his hour of blossoming —
⁠     The full, harmonious colors of his spring,
O think not when they fail ye shall go bare;

Take heart, his very mourning still is fair,
     ⁠Ay, tho' the world its hail of pity fling,
     ⁠Cutting as scorn, no meaner, earthlier thing,
Can match the royal robe of Love's despair!

Put on his weeds, then, ye who fear to sleep,
⁠     Because ye fear to wake to grief new-blown;
Rise, bear sweet spices to the grave, and weep
⁠     Love's balmy tears, there where by Love o'erthrown,
Death leaves but empty cerements in a heap,
     ⁠And Love for love still rolls away the stone.

II.

Fair friends of Love, who fear to take his pay,
     ⁠Counting his service loss, his joys too brief,
⁠     Too much o'erweighted by his long-drawn grief,
Try his conclusions, ere ye say him nay.

What though his servants walk at close of day,
⁠     And hold sad commune o'er some vanished chief,
⁠     Not for love's death, but birth of high belief,
Their hearts still burn within them by the way.

They know their love is living, and take shame
⁠     That they one moment sought him with the dead;
They feel their love immortal, by the flame
     ⁠That burns the brighter as it burns unfed.
So weeping, sing Love's praise, who could reframe
     ⁠The universe whence all but love had fled.