The Mother’s Tragedy

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE CRIMSON cheeks of love’s fierce fever! O amber skin, electric to the kiss! O eyes of sin! O bosom of my bliss! Sorrow, the web, is spun of Love the weaver. Twelve moons have circled in their seasons ; The earth has swept, exultant, round the sun; Our love has slept, and, sleeping, made us one. The thirteenth moon, be sure, the time of treasons ! Another spirit waves its pinions. Love vanishes : we hate each other's sight. In sullen seas sinks our sun-flaming light, Darkness is master of the dream-dominions. Lo! in thy womb a child! How rotten Seems love to me who love it as my soul! The love of thee hath broken its control, The misconceived become the misbegotten. In thee the love of me is broken. Fear, hatred, pain, discomfort mock thy days; Thou canst disdain; these solitary bays Twine with decaying myrtles for a token.