74 
A PAEAN IN THE SPRINGTIDE 
 
Death with cold finger shall touch the delicate springs 
of our lust. 
We shall be weary of kisses, weary of all the caresses 
Man or his sisters of shame dream or devise or obtain ; 
Cover the white limbs ashamed with the fiery impas-
sionate tresses, 
Once for a bed to delight, now for a covering to pain. 
 
Love is a fruit with rotted core, 
Love is a thing shall be no more ; 
Love is a bride of a bitter dower, 
Easily fades a spring-tide flower. 
 
Where shall be Hylas then ?  for his lonely lips are 
sighing, 
Vainly in hell for love, vainly for days gone by ; 
Where the incarnate flame of Lesbian lovers dying, 
Then where the world is past, and Heaven or hell 
draw nigh ? 
Heaven with cold and loveless lips, though his fruits 
be many, 
Hell with his red mouth hot, barren although he be. 
Hylas  and  Sappho  choose,  and  are   never   denied 
of any, 
Hell’s most insatiate fangs, death and his empery.