A Trois Temps.
83
We all are fed with shadows, for his share
The husks of honour, yours the phantom fruit
That duty bears upon its thorny boughs,
And mine, the poisoned bread of jealousy;
And at this goodly feast we sit, like ghouls,
And fatten our despair. But now no more
Shall I fold hands and say my humble grace
Before such meat. Think not of honour, dear,
What is it, weighed beside our love———
The husks of honour, yours the phantom fruit
That duty bears upon its thorny boughs,
And mine, the poisoned bread of jealousy;
And at this goodly feast we sit, like ghouls,
And fatten our despair. But now no more
Shall I fold hands and say my humble grace
Before such meat. Think not of honour, dear,
What is it, weighed beside our love———
She—
But you forget that he—he also loves,
Unconscious of his loss. He loves me, too,
And he at least is happy. Must we then
Build up our joy upon the wreck of his?
Is this the lore our love reveals to us?
Vain dream! We might as surely hope to snatch,
With greedy fingers, from the murky cloud,
The vaporous beauty of the rainbow arch
As pluck our happiness from deeds like this.
Besides, oh! dearest, have you never felt
That this dear love of ours is as the risen
Transfigured soul of our deep-buried selves,
But you forget that he—he also loves,
Unconscious of his loss. He loves me, too,
And he at least is happy. Must we then
Build up our joy upon the wreck of his?
Is this the lore our love reveals to us?
Vain dream! We might as surely hope to snatch,
With greedy fingers, from the murky cloud,
The vaporous beauty of the rainbow arch
As pluck our happiness from deeds like this.
Besides, oh! dearest, have you never felt
That this dear love of ours is as the risen
Transfigured soul of our deep-buried selves,
