Who taught me lore of love, its restless woe—
Love! Love! the bitter art whose masters are
Than Spartan mothers crueller since they say—
The arms that bring you joy likewise must slay!
LV
Sadly I watched the dancers gayly dressed—
A silken river of frail iris sheen
O’er-fluttered by winged fans; watched heads down lean
In languor to be sweetly word caressed;
O! weary was the heart within my breast