He set in its dream seems loaning

To Beauty a grief, Mumtaz Mahal,

And unto Fate a sigh.

[Pg 35]

[Pg 35]

LOVE'S CYNIC

I

O you poets, ever pretending

Love is immortal, pipe the truth!

Empty your books of lies, the ending

Of no passion can be—Youth.

"Heaven," you breathe, "will join the broken?"

Come, was the Infinite e'er wed,

That He must evermore be thinking

Of your wedding bed?

II

Pipe the truth! tho it clip the glamour

Out of your rhymes and rip your dream.

Do you believe words can enamour

Death and dry up Lethe's stream?

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