And should men name me dead, I beg ye, say "Nay, he but wearied here, and went away.

God is a creed outworn, Ill-wrought from a mirage fair, And life is an image pale That faces a sunless morn.

The beauty that men seek is half a dream-- Where'er we wander, yet it lies afar; It touches with its wand a setting star, It stirs the ripple of an ebbing stream. And though we run beyond the dawning gleam, Or kneel to worship at an altar bright, We may not know the soul of its delight, Or more than marvel at its palest beam.

And should men name me dead, I beg ye, say "Nay, he but wearied here, and went away.

Love is a jeering mime.

Ah, love, 'tis a sorrowful land!

Oh, the morrow of pain and dole Is naught while the sunlight lingers.