Part Eight Harvest
“Time was I coveted the woes they rued
Whose love commemorates them,—I that meant
To get like grace of love then!—and intent
To win as they had done love’s plenitude,
Rapture and havoc, vauntingly I sued
That love like theirs might make a toy of me,
At will caressed, at will (if publicly)
Demolished, as Love found or found not good.
“To-day I am no longer overbrave.
I have a fever,—I that always knew
This hour was certain!—and am too weak to rave,
Too tired to seek (as later I must do)
Tried remedies—time, manhood and the grave—
To drug, abate and banish love of you.”
ALLEN ROSSITER. A Fragment.