Blind and austere! Ah, no!
The chill succeeds the glow,
As winter hastes at summer's hurrying heel.
Flowers, soft and virgin-white,
Meant for the Bride's delight,
May deck the pall where love in tears must kneel.
Flowers are they, blossoms still,
Born of Benignant Will,
Not of the Sphingian Fate, which hath no heed
For human smiles or tears;