Classic Poem

Perchance I could have better borne the pain
Of knowing Love so infinitely frail,
Had it not been your hand that did disdain
To guard me from the falling of the flail.
I was secure in my sublime belief
That human passion bordered on divine.
How could I dream that you would be the thief
To rob my cup of its immortal wine?
Drained to the dregs, the empty glass I fling
Down the dim path of disillusioned years;
The Rose of Time is withered in its Spring,
The Wine of Life transfused in bitter tears,
And on my lips is left the tainted taste
Of Love once holy turned to weary waste!