Oh, the morrow of pain and dole Is naught while the sunlight lingers.
God is a creed outworn, Ill-wrought from a mirage fair, And life is an image pale That faces a sunless morn.
And should men name me dead, I beg ye, say "Nay, he but wearied here, and went away.
Love is a jeering mime.
Let me leap naked through life's testing flame, And bear to lose, and yet endure to win.
Ah, love, 'tis a sorrowful land!