11

Have You forgotten then my heart of old, That college of Love, that whip that bright eyes hold?

The school-bred demi-goddesses of this age Lack the carved grace of the old pagan mold!

This is a strange world, neither cage nor nest, With no calm nook in all its spacious fold.

The vine awaits Your bounteous rain: no more Is the Magian wine in Persia’s taverns sold.

My comrades thought my song were of Spring’s kindling— How should they know what in Love’s notes is told?

Out of my flesh and blood You made this earth; Its quenchless fever the martyr’s crown of gold.