WORMWOOD

What is he whispering to her there

Under the hedge-row spray?

“Spring, Spring, Spring?” — Is the world so fair

To him, fool, that he has no care

As he cuckoos it all day?

Is he quite sure — quite sure the sap

Of life's not hate, but love?

If I should tell him there's no gap

Between her and a... nameless hap,

Would he still want his “dove”?

Or would he go as blind to buds

As I am, who watch here,

While he is pouring poet floods

From his thin lips, and while his blood's

Burning for her so near?

It would be swords — swords!... And his steel

Should rip death from my breast.

But would he ever know the feel

Of Spring again, of its ribald reel,

As once I did, the best?

No! He would curse henceforward leaf

And flower and light — as I.

Spring?— It is fire, lust, ashes, grief —

All that a Hell can hold, in fief!...

He'll learn it ere he die.