The wheels of Fate are over me; quite crushed
Lies my pale body where her body blushed,
Quite dead ! there is no single sob that stirs,
No pulse of blood of all that filled and flushed
Her cheek and mine, her breast and mine: and lo!
How sunset’s bloom is faded on the snow ! .
There is no laugh of all those laughs of hers,
Those tender thrills of laughter I used to know.
Nor in all nature weep the careless eyes,
Nor any soul of life may sympathise,
All I once was in this is torn and rended—
Scorned and forsaken the lone lyre lies.
Hath that not yet some sympathy with me?
That lyre that was myself, my heart’s decree
And ruler, subtle at the dawn, and splendid
Noonwards, and soft at day’s declivity!
I flung it in my anguish to the ground.
I raise it, and its music hath not found
One string or snapped or loosened, and the tune
Is the old triumph garlanded and crowned !
Folly and hate! Blithe mockery of sorrow !
Shrill me no harsh lies of some sweet to-morrow!
Soothe me no hateful mysteries of the moon,
How one life lends what other lives may borrow!
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