viii.
It is the fault of thy despotic glance,
It is the memory of a day's romance
When, true to thee, though taunted for my truth,
I dared to solemnise the joys of youth
In one wild chant. It is thy fault, I say!
Thy piteous fault that, on the verge of May,
I lost the right to live, as heretofore,
Untouched by doubt from day to brightening day.