Vii

An iron despotism the day's: A brutal anarchy the night's: What hope for hope when day betrays, And night in death delights?

For, once I prayed for gulfs of gold, And morn pooled heav'n with sombre blood: For skies of stars, and skies behold-- Malignant with the scud.

And so I marvel not that he, Gray-haired and toothless, hugs his stove, While I my youth, which once was she, Have buried with my love.