  I O you poets, ever pretending Love is immortal, pipe the truth! Empty your books of lies, the ending Of no passion can be—Youth. "Heaven," you breathe, "will join the broken?" Come, was the Infinite e'er wed, That He must evermore be thinking Of your wedding bed? II Pipe the truth! tho it clip the glamour Out of your rhymes and rip your dream. Do you believe words can enamour Death and dry up Lethe's stream? One the Appeaseless e'er will squeeze Back into Lethe's flood—whose lasting Is eternities. III "False!" cry you, "and an unbeseeming Blasphemy!"—Well, look around. Is it not only in blaspheming Truth is ever to be found? Whether it be, one thing I ask you, Lovers and poets, tell, I pray, Was there ever a love-oath ended Ere the Judgment Day? IV "O," you answer, "ill is in all things." But in an ancient lie what's good? Is it not better just to call things What they are—not what we would? Love has the face of Eternity. Cling to her then, but know that Wanting Fools the best that be. V "Yet her brows and her eyes that murmur All the music," you say, "of God!" Press her lips but a little firmer— You will feel that they are—sod. "But there is living soul beyond them, And it is love's till all things end?" Children alone build Paradises With but pence to spend. VI "Ai-ho now! that is like the cynic," Pitying runs your poet-smile, "He has sat at the Devil's clinic With some dead love up the while." Under the potent knife of Truth They will be seen composed of craving— And a little ruth. VII "Then the world on a lie is living?" Many a lie has filled its maw! "Better illusion tho than giving Faith to a fatal loveless Law?" There is a certain Socratean Saying that swine of their ditch are sure; Yet do they prove by their contentment That it will endure? VIII Clasp her close! But the truth is in you, Tho you have rhymed and rammed it down, Hid it with honey-words that win you Wreaths that you know bedeck the clown. Of your kind? Lord save the mark, That we are still for fire dependent On so false a spark. IX And so fond! for you hold immortal What has been born a day or two! "But it was destined?" Ay, your portal Only has God to heed—and you! He with his thrice three million thirsting Worlds in the throes of death and life Surely has time to spare for choosing Your behooven wife! X By my faith, there is not a creature Mad as a poet, pants the breeze! Give him a mistress and he'll preach her As creation's Masterpiece. Over her lips and he will swear That he would dive thro death unfathomed To regain her there. XI And believe that his oath is able! That there is not in all the sea Water enough to quench the fable Of his soul's intensity. Yet there was never a rose that blossomed And endured beyond its day. There was never a fire enkindled But the great Cold had its way. XII "Pessimist," is your mortal answer, "Wait till the love-wind pierces you!" Wait? I have been the veriest dancer To it, and, dupe still, would do For but a moment on one breast. Wherefore I add—and Adam bless it!— Who loves once is like the rest. |
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