Love's Defeat. (Moods Of Love.)

A thousand times I would have hoped, A thousand times protested; But still, as through the night I groped, My torch from me was wrested, and wrested. How often with a succoring cup Unto the hurt I hasted! The wounded died ere I came up; My cup was still untasted,— Untasted. Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain Endured, I ne'er repented. 'T is not of these I would complain: With these I were contented,— Contented. Here lies the misery, to feel No work of love completed; In prayerless passion still to kneel, And mourn, and cry: "Defeated Defeated!"