 | Poems |  |
231
DEAD LOVE.
When Love is dead, who writes his epitaph?Who kisses his shut eyes, and says, “Sleep well!”
We do not ring for him a passing bell,
We cover him with flowers of jest and laugh,
The bitter funeral wine in silence quaff,
And with dull heart-beats toll his secret knell.
His grave is ours; and yet with life we strive
Endure the years, and grind our daily task.
There is no heaven for Love that could not live,
Poor earth has mocked us with this radiant mask:
And when in agony our dry lips ask—
“If God deprive us, wherefore did he give?”
There comes some dreadful question from above,
And asks, beside his grave, “Was this poor dead thing, Love?”
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