THE DEATH OF LOVE

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old!

And in the sorrow of our hearts’ hushed halls

A lute lies broken and a flower falls;

Love's house is empty and his hearth is cold.

Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told.

In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls,

Beauty decays; and on their pedestals

Dreams crumble, and th’ immortal gods are mould.

Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone,

One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost

Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past —

The voice of Memory, that stills to stone

The soul that hears; the mind that, utterly lost,

Before its beautiful presence stands aghast.