"O, who are these that will adjure thee, King,
To put away this tender flower-thing,
This love that is thy bliss?
Dost thou think thou canst live indeed, and dare
The joyless remnant of pale days, the bare
Hard tomb, and feed through cold eternities
Thy heart without one kiss?
"Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lips
Kept red and living with perpetual sips
Of Love's rich cup of wine?
That thy fair body shall not fall away,
And waste among the worms that bitter day
Thou hast no lover round thy neck to twine
Fond arms like these of mine?
"I say they are no prophets,—very deaths,
And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breaths
Who speak against delight;
Pale distant slayers of humanity
Have tainted them, and sent them forth to try
Weak lures to make man give up joyous right
Of days for empty night.
Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/127
This page needs to be proofread.
