LES MORTS VONT VITE.
Les morts vont vite! Ay for a little space
We miss and mourn them, fallen from their place;
To take our portion in their rest are fain;
But by-and-by, having wept, press on again,
Perchance to win their laurels in the race.
What man would find the old in the new love's face?
Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace,
For withered roses newer blooms disdain?
Les morts vont vite!
But when disease brings thee in piteous case,
Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace
To them for whom remembrance plead in vain.
Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow Pain
Clasp thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace:
Les morts vont vite!
H. C. Bunner.
"IN LOVE'S DISPORT."
In love's disport, gay bubbles blown
On summer winds light-freighted flown:
A child intent upon delight
The painted spheres would keep in sight,
Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown.
Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grown
Fair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone,
Clear globes where fate may read aright
In love's disport.
O frail as fair! though in the white
Of flameful heat with force to fight,
Art thou by careless hands cast down
Or killed, when frozen hearts disown
The children born of love and light
In love's disport.