HIS eyes in eclipse, Pale-cold his lips, The light of his hopes unfed, Mute his tongue, His bow unstrung With the tears he hath shed, Backward drooping his graceful head, Love is dead: His last arrow is sped; He hath not another dart; Go -- carry him to his dark deathbed; Bury him in the cold, cold heart -- Love is dead. O truest love! art thou forlorn, And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? Shall hollow-hearted apathy, The cruellest form of perfect scorn, With languor of most hateful smiles, For ever write, In the withered light Of the tearless eye, An epitaph that all may spy? No! sooner she herself shall die. For her the showers shall not fall, Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all; Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green grass shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, Till Love have his full revenge. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO RICHARD R. WRIGHT - INSTRUCTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON FOREIGN LANDS by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AN ORIGINAL THOUGHT by MARIA ABDY TWILIGHT ON THE DESERT by ETHEL FRANCES BARNARD THE BOAST OF THE TIDES by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |