It is not cruel if the ripe fruit fall—
But never an elegy funereal
Wept for untimely burial, but cried
Aloud against the Fates, forbore to call
In pity or passion on the Gods of peace;
But cursed, but wailed, nor bade its sharp tongue cease
Until the lightning spat, sharp to divide
Bone from its marrow for their blasphemies!
So I should curse, unless indeed my grief
Be not too great to yield me such relief.
Methinks a sob must start and mar the roar
Of loud harsh laughing bitter unbelief
Scarring the sky with poisonous foam of song.
Also, what curse might remedy the wrong?
Are not all feuds forgotten in a war?
All stars exhausted in Astrea’s throng
When the swift sun leaps skyward? Let me speak
Words rather of wisdom: hate may rage and wreak
Vengeance in vain if wisdom smile beyond,
Too high to care, too ultimate to seek.
The bitterest sorrow of all sorrow is this :
I had no time to catch one last long kiss,
Nor bid farewell, nor lay one lily-frond
Of resurrection for the sign of bliss,
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