Wormwood

(In Old England)

What is he whispering to her there Under the hedge-row spray? "Spring, Spring, Spring?"--Is the world so fair To him, fool, that he has no care As he cuckoos it all day?

Is he quite sure--quite sure the sap Of life's not hate, but love? If I should tell him there's no gap Between her and a ... nameless hap, Would he still want his "dove"?

Or would he go as blind to buds As I am, who watch here, While he is pouring poet floods From his thin lips, and while his blood's Burning for her so near?

It would be swords--swords!... And his steel Should rip death from my breast. But would he ever know the feel Of Spring again, of its ribald reel, As once I did, the best?

No! He would curse henceforward leaf And flower and light--as I. Spring?--It is fire, lust, ashes, grief-- All that a Hell can hold, in fief!... He'll learn it ere he die.