He Inadvertantly Cures His Love-pains

I said: "O let me sing the praise

Of her who sweetly racks my days, -

Her I adore;

Her lips, her eyes, her moods, her ways."

In miseries of pulse and pang

I strung my harp, and straightway sang

As none before: -

To wondrous words my quavers rang!

Thus I let heartaches lilt my verse,

Which suaged and soothed, and made disperse

The smarts I bore

To stagnance like a sepulchre's.

But, eased, the days that thrilled ere then

Lost value; and I ask, O when,

And how, restore

Those old sweet agonies again.

-o0o-