What, then, is Love but a sword of roses
Which cleaves poor waiting hearts
And thusly drunk with the blood of saints
Exults in its own dissipation?
And mine, a soul it so jagged gashed,
A scarred and wilted husk
Which once had songs to Heaven sung
Yet now but gasps with the fetid breath of dying things...
Oh soft Night's tapestry:meadows, fields,
The courtyards of the Moon!
Now but brittle corpses endraped in silken mask,
Their board and banquet but sullen Death
Mocking of Light, fair Hope, and fond Embrace...