 | Complete works (1925-27) |  |
95
VII
[Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee]
Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee,But to approve her blindness? Dost not shame,
O false and beautiful, to build thy fame
Upon the ruines of dead misery?
Thy sin hath slain my soul; yet not alone
Its rank transgression in so base a choice
As bares thy honour to the public voice
Doth wound me, as that thy fault is mine own.
Was there no way to kill thy lover's soul,
Than dainty poison hidden in a kiss?
Thou didst with honey touch the murderous bowl,
To speed me hence in a false slaughterous bliss.
Was there no way, O flatterer, to destroy,
But by the new-strewn flower of seeming joy?
| Complete works (1925-27) | |