Beauty and Pain!
Death will not come with thee, O Pain!
Life will not come with thee, O Beauty!
The fires of hell are but a taper's flame compared to this.
Thy guest, O Bed of Brass,
Looks on thee with a yearning glance.
And yet her soul, bearing the torch of Pain,
Is searching all the worlds for Death.
THREE GOLDEN THREADS
(After de Lisle.)
Like yonder swallow, I would soar away,—
Above the sea, far from this buzzing mart;
But how can I? A cruel, little fay
Has fettered with three golden threads my heart.
Her honeyed tongue the one; her eyes the other;
The third her lips; and that completes her art.
No fruits from other gardens can I gather,
For she has tied with golden threads my heart.
O, how I would asunder rend my chain,
And from the tears and pangs of love depart;
Ah, no! 'tis better that I die in pain
Than break the golden threads of my poor heart.
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