We will love but,
We will not leave ourselves,
We can love but,
Her frozen touch,
We still but fret.
Her singeing scent stole,
Her skinning’s tint dull,
Dead girl, coeval,
As last night’s sip of Pomerol,
Age nibble me little, time eat me whole,
We can love, but cannot control,
The emoting vibrations of our past heart,
From which we cannot depart,–ourselves,
The heart, the holy drum,
Beating with fever and never numb,
Speaking in actions, and dumb.
Lie upon a chiseled heart,
With names from past, unveil arts,
We cannot love without amassment.