The Burial of Love
His eyes in eclipse,
Pale-cold his lips,
The light of his hopes unfed,
Mute his tongue,
His bow unstrung
With the tears he hath shed,
Backward drooping his graceful head,
Love is dead:
His last arrow is sped;
He hath not another dart;
Go—carry him to his dark deathbed;
Bury him in the cold, cold heart—
Love is dead.
Oh, truest Love! art thou forlorn,
And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?
Shall hollow-hearted Apathy,
The cruellest form of perfect scorn
With languor of most hateful smiles,
Forever write,
In the withered light
Of the tearless eye,
An epitaph that all may spy?
No! sooner she herself shall die.
For her the showers shall not fall
Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;
Her light shall into darkness change;
For her the green grass shall not spring,
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,
Till Love have his full revenge.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.