THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
45 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“ MANY WATERS CANNOT 
QUENCH LOVE.” 
 
 
N my distress I made complaint to Death : 
 Thy shadow strides across the starry air ; 
 Thou comest as a serpent unaware, 
Striking love’s heart and crushing out man’s breath : 
Thy destiny is even as God saith 
 To mark the impotence of human prayer, 
 Choke hope, sting all but Love ;  and never care 
If man or flower or sparrow perisheth. 
 
Thee, I invoke thee, though no mercy move 
 Thy heart !  No power is to thy hate assigned 
On love (sing, poets !  shrill, Pandean reeds !). 
But me, look on me, how my bosom bleeds— 
 Invoke new power of cruelty ;  be kind, 
And ask authority to quench my love ! 
 
  I