The Death Of Love

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old! And in the sorrow of our heart’s hushed halls A lute lies broken and a rose-flower falls; Love’s house stands empty and his hearth lies cold. Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told, In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls Beauty decays; and on their pedestals Dreams crumble, and th’ immortal gods are mold. Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone, One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past-- The voice of Memory, that stills to stone The soul that hears; the mind, that, utterly lost, Before its beautiful presence stands aghast.