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5
DISILLUSIONED
Doth Viola seem so cold? Yet virgin sheDisclosed unto the evening her full soul,
Telling her tale unto the violets,
Her history to the lilies, while the sun
Of passion glimmered to a gloomy west.
Thinking to clasp a God her arms enwrapped
Merely a solemn statue without life,
Faultless, approved, a stiff unmeaning form,
That which he seemed, dreaming she made him seem.
The dream is dead, the hollow form remains.
Frail-flaming June, to what a bareness fallen!
None now can matter, after him she found
So little, whom she cherished as so great.
One leap her being made, and missed the leap,
Now must she crawl her way for evermore.
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