The Bridegroom

Call me not false, beloved, If, from thy scarce-known breast So little time removed, In other arms I rest.

For this more ancient bride Whom coldly I embrace Was constant at my side Before I saw thy face.

Our marriage, often set-- By miracle delayed-- At last is consummate, And cannot be unmade.

Live, then, whom Life shall cure, Almost, of Memory, And leave us to endure Its immortality.