THE FORTY-EIGHTH DAY 
 
“ Let us return 
“ And strain what other means is left to us 
In our dear peril.” 
Timon of Athens. 
 
Our love takes on a tinge of melancholy, 
The six months glory of life past on earth 
About to yield to Hades’ bridal birth, 
The world’s sad sympathy with Persephone. 
Yet I myself, while tuning to her key 
My sighs of sorrow, mused in secret mirth : 
“ I am convinced at last of money’s worth, 
For lack of which she cannot cross the sea.” 
 
I told her, like a fool, a day too soon. 
She went and told her story to the priest ; 
She wept, and borrowed money of the beast. 
She told me she would go :  June fell from June. 
I, left in limbo ; she, to front the elate 
Cockoldy lawyer in the L  .  .  .  S  .  .  .  S  .  .  . 
 
90