* * * * *
So love this twain, but whither have they passed?
Ah me, that dark must always follow day,
That Love's last kiss is surely kissed at last,
Howe'er so wildly the poor lips may pray:
Merciful God, is there no other way?
And pen, O must thou of the ending write,
The hour Lanciotto found them where they lay,
Folded together, weary with delight,
Within the sumptuous petals of the rose of night.
Yea, for Lanciotto found them: many an hour
Ere their dear joy had run its doomed date,
Had they, in silken nook and blossomed bower,
All unsuspect the blessed apple ate,
Who now must grind its core predestinate.
Kiss, kiss, poor losing lovers, nor deny
One little tremor of its bliss, for Fate
Cometh upon you, and the dark is nigh
Where all, unkissed, unkissing, learn at length to lie.
Bent on some journey of the state's concern
They deemed him, and indeed he rode thereon
But questioned Paolo--'What if he return!'
'Nay, love, indeed he is securely gone
As thou art surely here, beloved one,
He went ere sundown, and our moon is here--
A fear, love, in this heart that yet knew none!'
How could he fright that little velvet ear
With last night's dream and all its ghostly fear!
So did he yield him to her eager breast,
And half forgot, but could not quite forget,
No sweetest kiss could put that fear to rest,
And all its haggard vision chilled him yet;
Their warder moon in nameless trouble set,
There seemed a traitor echo in the place,
A moaning wind that moaned for lovers met,
And once above her head's deep sunk embrace
He saw--Death at the window with his yellow face.
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