Love is a jeering mime.
And should men name me dead, I beg ye, say "Nay, he but wearied here, and went away.
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.
Ah, love, 'tis a sorrowful land!
Yet earth has never child she may not slay, Nor sea a lover that she cannot kill.