THE IMPROVISATRICE.
39
And he is bartering his heart
For that in which it hath no part.
There’s many an ill that clings to love;
But this is one all else above;—
For love to bow before the name
Of this world’s treasure: shame! oh, shame!
Love, be thy wings as light as those
That waft the zephyr from the rose,—
This may be pardoned—something rare
In loveliness has been thy snare!
But how, fair Love, canst thou become
A thing of mines—a sordid gnome?
And she whom Julian left—she stood
A cold white statue; as the blood
Had, when in vain her last wild prayer,
Flown to her heart, and frozen there.
