Howls the grey sky to the sea—
Loose the storm-dogs from their bed.
Turned I back—and woe is me—
I must die—for Love is dead.
[SIGH NOT FOR LOVE]
Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark!
Sweet Child—hold up the hollow of your hand
And catch the sparks that flutter from the stars!
See how the late sky spreads in flushing bars!
They are dead roses from your own dear land