Now in these last spent drops, slow, slower shed, Love dies, Love dies, Love dies--ah, Love is dead! Sad Love in life, sore Love in agony, Pale Love in death; while all his offspring songs, Like children, versed not in death's chilly wrongs, About him flit, frighted to see him lie So still, who did not know that Love could die. One lifts his wing, where dulls the vermeil all Like clotting blood, and shrinks to find it cold, And when she sees its lapse and nerveless fall Clasps her fans, while her sobs ooze through the webb-ed gold. Thereat all weep together, and their tears Make lights like shivered moonlight on long waters. Have peace, O piteous daughters! He shall not wake more through the mortal years, Nor comfort come to my soul widow-ed, Nor breath to your wild wings; for Love is dead! I slew, that moan for him: he lifted me Above myself, and that I might not be Less than myself, need was that he should die; Since Love that first did wing, now clogged me from the sky. Yet lofty Love being dead thus passeth base-- There is a soul of nobleness which stays, The spectre of the rose: be comforted, Songs, for the dust that dims his sacred head! The days draw on too dark for Song or Love; O peace, my songs, nor stir ye any wing! For lo, the thunder hushing all the grove, And did Love live, not even Love could sing. And, Lady, thus I dare to say, Not all with you is passed away! For your love taught me this:-'tis Love's true praise To be, not staff, but writ of worthy days; And that high worth in love unfortunate Should still remain it learned in love elate. Beyond your star, still, still the stars are bright; Beyond your highness, still I follow height; Sole I go forth, yet still to my sad view, Beyond your trueness, Lady, Truth stands true. This wisdom sings my song with last firm breath, Caught from the twisted lore of Love and Death, The strange inwoven harmony that wakes From Pallas' straying locks twined with her aegis-snakes. 'On him the unpetitioned heavens descend, Who heaven on earth proposes not for end; The perilous and celestial excess Taking with peace, lacking with thankfulness. Bliss in extreme befits thee not, until Thou'rt not extreme in bliss; be equal still: Sweets to be granted think thy self unmeet Till thou have learned to hold sweet not too sweet.' This thing not far is he from wise in art Who teacheth; nor who doth, from wise in heart.
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