I32 
THE TRIADS OF DESPAIR 
 
For she is all the self I own, 
And all I want of will. 
She speaks not, and is known. 
Her window shining chill 
Whispers “ He lingers still. 
I am alone.” 
 
IV 
 
But to-night the lamp must be wasted, 
And the delicate hurt must ache, 
And the sweet lips moan untasted, 
My lady lie lonely awake. 
The night is taken from love, and love’s guerdon 
Is life and its burden. 
 
To-night if I turn to my lover 
I must ask :  If she be ?  who am I ? 
To-night if her heart I uncover 
No heart in the night I espy. 
I am grips with the question of eld, and the sphinx 
holds fast 
My eyes to the past. 
 
Who am I, when I say I languish ? 
Who is she, if I call her mine ? 
And the fool’s and the wise man’s anguish 
Are burnt in the bitter shrine. 
The god is far as the stars, and the wine and fire 
Salt with desire. 
Desunt cetera.