And so we closed the book, wherein we wrote

How many words of ecstasy and pain,

How oft repeated passion's deep refrain,

Like ebb and flow of tide, whose echo smote

Upon the hearing of our listening sense.

These pages will become the prey of years,

And time, who stretches forth an envious hand,

Shall make impossible to understand

Our burning words, that shine with unshed tears,

Ay, and we two may offer no defence!

The early mornings of awakening Spring

That smote our inspiration and desire

They still shall call, yet find no answering fire

Within the eyes of two at least, who bring

But wormwood, from the once so flowering path.

And limpid winter twilights when we gazed

Thro' frosted panes across the purpling snow,

Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glow

They too shall come in season as before,

Yet we be absent, and within the room

Our vacant places cast a little gloom;

Then shall there fall a shadow on the floor,

As of one passing, who is yet unseen.

Perchance a pilgrim wind will pause to look

Within this volume where our tale unfolds,

And sorry at the text he there beholds,

Rustle with sighs the vellum of this book,

But leave no trace of where his breath has been.

Perchance a rose that through the casement bent,

Might cast her ardent eyes upon this lay,

And being touched, hide one soft leaf away

Between its pages, out of sentiment,

Then toss her wanton fragrance to the South.

Aye, many roses shall be born to grace

The garden, and the day will still rejoice,

Yet never at the echo of thy voice,

Nor shall a rose lift up its longing face

That we may cool our lips upon its mouth.

And side by side with petals and with sighs,

With overweening tenderness and trust,

Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust:

A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes,

With grinning pathos from the title page

Will bear stark record of its master Death.

Sightless, yet seeing all Eternity,

With silent voice that rings more truthfully

Than any words we quickened with our breath

More full of wisdom than the speech of sage.

We two have loved, and have outlived the laws

Of love, e'en as these bones survive their flesh

With awful vigour gleaming strangely fresh

Amid the ruin of their natal cause,

A peg on which the gods may hang their wit!

We two have cast each other in the flame

Of searing passion, that we deemed was life.

Alas! those fiery billows flowing rife

Upon the sand, they have defaced love's name,

And there remains no smallest trace of it.

And yet we live, and walk upon the earth,

Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn,

And all created creatures being born

Must do, and thus atone their hour of birth,

A living sacrifice to what! Who knows?

My eyes shall still behold the stars above,

And you, how oft will count the hosts of night,

But never, never can we feel delight

In them together, swearing that our love

Is more enduring than eternal things!

Oh! blessed madness that possessed the heart,

Oh! sweet unreason that could cloud the mind,

Alas! that we have left you far behind,

And growing wise must lose the dearer part,

Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.

What would we not surrender overjoyed,

To hear once more the music that is still;

We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrill

From shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed,

From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb.

Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past,

Replete with its embodied ecstasy!

How little would we count Eternity,

How ready be, to know that hour, our last,

Oh! bitterness, that we ourselves did write

These pages with heart's blood, yet cannot feel

To-day one little tremor o'er us steal

Save of regret for so much past delight!

The cup is spilt of which we two partook.

For this last time, oh! once beloved, stay

Close here beside me, while my drying pen

Has still the strength to write our last Amen.

'Tis written ... there is nothing left to say,

And so together ... thus, we close the book.