Words for the Chisel (collection)/Ballad of Typical Lovers
Ballad of Typical Lovers
They are untrue by fits and starts,And each goes gray with grief;They both break ardent beauty and their heartsBelieving love is brief;
She wantons with a new manAgainst the day love fails;In hell, on a wooden woman,The hangs with kisses for nails.
And love is always underTheir feet, wherever they move;Too late to mend their blunderHow sick they are now, of Love!
They loathe each other and wonderWhat strange thing has them bound:
Too late, they grope and falterTogether, when they have foundThe bond they aged to alterWas solid as the ground.
Too late, too late;—for neverWill love be anythingBut acrid flesh, forever,And restlessness, in spring.