Urgent to hide the approaching loneliness,
Our bitter portion; prismed in tears, the dusk
Swam ’round with dizzy color: the nightingales,
Beauty’s disdain above the war of things,
Beauty’s high pity from her virgin heights,
Our meeting hearts pierced with a single pang—
Like a bright sword of sorrow through the breast
Driven, and like a bruising sword withdrawn.
The sun arose—
Fled were the nightingales, the love, the joy—