Sword of Roses

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...