Iii

The soul that made love exquisite is gone, It is not that the word, the kiss, is changed. I cannot say, “Here was his thought withdrawn; So once was love, so now is love estranged.”

But all of love that I could touch and know I held as one a lamp that makes his day, And touch it still, and see its flame burn low, Its shining figures fade to painted clay.

Ah, I would hold the semblance, keep the kiss; But watching in its heart the paling spark, I cry out when the shadows menace this, As children weep for terror of the dark.