A PAEAN IN THE SPRINGTIDE 
73 
Sweeter than lips could have told, who loved better 
only to kiss ; 
Sweeter than hands could have written, who took delight 
in the glories 
Fierce of a triple embrace, a fadeless implacable bliss. 
 
Love is a sword whose blade is red, 
Love is a deed whose fruit is dead ; 
Love is a tiger, fierce of power, 
Easily fades a spring-tide flower. 
 
Death shall come slow and soft, with the stealthy tread 
of a leopard ; 
While the few stars have grown dim, as he seeks for an 
innocent prey. 
Death shall pounce soon on the fold, where Love was a 
treacherous shepherd ; 
So with hot lips shall he come, ere the mountains are 
silver and grey. 
Life shall gasp out in the gloom, and all our desires 
shall perish ; 
Hope and its roseate crown shall fall in the dark to 
the dust. 
Love and his garland shall go, with the last of the 
joys we may cherish,