We are put by, but not the Bow,The Arrows, and the Dove.Though you and I go down, still glowThe armaments of love.
The essence shines devoid of form,Passion plucked of its sting,The Holy Rose that hides no worm,The Everlasting Thing.Though loud I cry on Venus' nameTo heal me and subdueThe rising tide, the raging flame,I write no more of you.
Rare was the poem we began(We called it that!) to live,And for a while the measures ranWith all the heart could give.But, oh, the golden vein was thin,Early the dark cock crew;The heart cried out (love's muezzin):I write no more of you.
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