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FOR CUPID DEAD.
FOR CUPID DEAD.
HEN Love is dead, what more but funeral rites,— To lay his sweet corse lovingly to rest,
To cover him with rose and eglantine,
And all fair posies that he loved the best?
What more, but kisses for his close-shut eyes,
His cold, still lips that never more will speak,—
His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim,
The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek?
His cold, still lips that never more will speak,—
His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim,
The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek?
What more, but tears that will not warm his brow,
Although they burn the eyes from whence they start?
No bitter weeping or more bitter words
Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart.
Although they burn the eyes from whence they start?
No bitter weeping or more bitter words
Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart.
