SONNET—THE DEPARTURE OF LOVE.

Spirit of wordless Love, that in the lone

Bowers of the Poet’s museful soul dost weave

Tissues of thought, hued like the skies of eve,

Ere the last glories of the sun have shone,

How soon—almost before our hearts have known

The change—above the ruins of thy throne—

Whose vanished beauty we would fain retrieve

With all Earth’s thrones beside—we stand and grieve!

We weep not, for the world’s chill breath hath bound

In chains of ice the fountains of our tears,

But ever-mourning Memory thenceforth rears

Her altars upon desecrated ground,

And always, with a low despairful sound,

Tolls the disastrous bell of all our years!