The hands that cannot clasp for life, Must quickly severed be. The love that is not large enough To live eternally, 

Must quickly severed be.

To live eternally,

 In true love's name, for fair love's fame, Must die before its bloom; For it, in all God's earth or heaven, There is no garden-room. 

Must die before its bloom;

There is no garden-room.

 Though all the wine of life be lost, Try well the red grape's hue. Holy the soul that cannot taste The false love for the true. 

Try well the red grape's hue.

The false love for the true.

 And blessed aye the fainting heart For such a thirst shall be— Yet never a word they spoke, and looked Upon the bitter sea. 

For such a thirst shall be—

Upon the bitter sea.

 

 

 AN APRIL GUST. 

 It shall be as it hath been. All the world is glad and green— Hush! Ah, hush! There cannot be April now for you and me. 

 Put your finger on the lips Of your soul; the wild rain drips; The wind goes diving down the sea; Tell the wind, but tell not me. 

 Yet if I had aught to tell, High as heaven, or deep as hell, Bent the fates awry or fit, I would find a word for it. 

 Oh, words that neither sea nor land Can lift their ears to understand! Wild words, as dumb as death or fear, I dare to die, but not to hear! 

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