My lord could think of nothing but the lady who had bidden him cut
His way to her by such detours. Aye, this was true romance—the slut.
We called her secretly The Burr—whereof was plenty in our beds—
For night by night he crooned of her, nor even named the Sepulchre:
I waited, and the hours were loth to close.
They scarcely stirred till evening leapt to sight
Between the shadows that all substance throws
As bridges for its passage to the night.
You never came. Life dozes at the touch
Of those not wholly resolute to live,