THE IDEALIST.
THE sweetest lips are oft fore-doomed
The bitterest cups to drain;
The purest brows are those that wear
The thorny crowns of Pain.
The bitterest cups to drain;
The purest brows are those that wear
The thorny crowns of Pain.
The fires of martyrdom to-day
Leap fiercely as of old,
No fagot lent more wrathful heat
Than, latent, sleeps in cold.
Leap fiercely as of old,
No fagot lent more wrathful heat
Than, latent, sleeps in cold.
I saw a greedy flame consume
The whiteness of your cheek,
One moment when you read a thought
The thinker dared not speak:
The whiteness of your cheek,
One moment when you read a thought
The thinker dared not speak:
Her wrong, not yours, suffused your face,
Her stealthy thought of blame,
Leaped through the bar ways of her eyes
And set your soul aflame.
Her stealthy thought of blame,
Leaped through the bar ways of her eyes
And set your soul aflame.
(48)
