To Chastelard at a Fancy Ball
(An Acrostic)
CALLED back a season from the shades below
How looks the world in its last phantasy?
Are living women, in their youth's bright glow,
Sweet as your own dead queen in memory?
Tell all true lovers who have wept your woe,
Each poet who has sung your hapless fate,
Let us, whose eyes grow dim with pity know,
Are all life's pleasant paths left desolate?
Remembering afresh your tragic tale,
Does Love seem timid grown, and wan, and pale?