Love, a Sword
Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword which cuts its sheath,
And through the clefts itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the blade!
But through the clefts itself has made,
We likewise see Love’s flashing blade
By rust consumed, or snapt in twain:
And only hilt and stump remain.
?1825.