THE LOVE-MOON
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When that dead face, bowered in the furthest years,Which once was all the life years held for thee,Can now scarce bide the tides of memoryCast on thy soul a little spray of tears,--How canst thou gaze into these eyes of hersWhom now thy heart delights in, and not seeWithin each orb Love's philtred euphrasyMake them of buried troth remembrancers?' 'Nay, pitiful Love, nay, loving Pity! WellThou knowest that in these twain I have confess'dTwo very voices of thy summoning bell.Nay, Master, shall not Death make manifestIn these the culminant changes which approveThe love-moon that must light my soul to Love?'
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