SCATTER THE SILVER ASH LIKE SNOW

O, what insect is it

That burrows in the heart and frets

The heart's near nerves,

Leaving its unclean

Stigmata in the mind serene,

Making the proud how mean?

It is not common hate,

Anger has not such deadly cunning

To annul, to chill.

Wild anger is not

So cunning even while so hot;

Hate is too soon forgot.

There is no sword so sharp

With lightnings as the wanton tongue;

Nothing that burns like words —

Bubbling flames that spread

In the now unspiritual head,

By sleepless fevers fed.

O evil words that are

The knives of desolating thought!

And though words be still

The hot eyes yet dart

Burning deaths from this mad heart

Into that torn heart.

O Love, forget, forget,

Put by that glittering edge, put by;

Slay the insect with light;

Smother that smoky glow,

Scatter the silver ash like snow

When thy spring airs blow!