Love's Despair
Oh infinite delight when never more
The white seas shine before us on the sand, —
When at the touching of Death's calm sweet hand
Colour forsakes the hills, and light the shore!
Yes: then shall all life's wild fierce pain be o'er.
Nought shall arouse us from our perfect sleep:
At woman's touch no lingering pulse shall leap
Nor at bright Summer's footstep at the door.
Whom woman cannot rouse is more than dead,
Death's infinite peace shall fall upon each soon:
Then in the timeless land where star nor moon
Glitters, — nor rose of white nor rose of red, —
And where no woman's figure thrills the air,
We shall find rest from love, — and love's despair.
The white seas shine before us on the sand, —
When at the touching of Death's calm sweet hand
Colour forsakes the hills, and light the shore!
Yes: then shall all life's wild fierce pain be o'er.
Nought shall arouse us from our perfect sleep:
At woman's touch no lingering pulse shall leap
Nor at bright Summer's footstep at the door.
Whom woman cannot rouse is more than dead,
Death's infinite peace shall fall upon each soon:
Then in the timeless land where star nor moon
Glitters, — nor rose of white nor rose of red, —
And where no woman's figure thrills the air,
We shall find rest from love, — and love's despair.
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