74 GRAVE GALLANTRY

My rival Death is fashioned amorously;— No caliph boasts more comely wives than he, For whom crowned Cleopatra reft the snare Of careful-eyed Octavius, and—less fair Than she, but lovely still—Leucothoë, And Atalanta, and Antigonê, Loosed virgin zones.... What need hadst thou to be Desirous then of this girl’s lips and hair, My rival Death? What need hadst thou likewise of Dorothy! What need of that which was all life to me! What need, lascivious Death, that she forswear Fond oaths to me—fond oaths made otherwhere— In thy lank arms, and leave me friends with thee, My rival, Death!

Had she divined how many virelais Have feebly parodied some piercing phase Of love for her whom love lacked might to claim— How many rhymes have marshalled frail and lame, Yet fervent-hearted, to avouch her praise,— Such pity had been mine as well repays Drear years of waiting. Ey, in kindlier days Compassion might have worn some kinglier name Had she divined. Now that may never be; divergent ways Allured; and all is ended; and naught betrays Dead cheeks to kindle, now, with livelier flame For aught I utter.... Yet it were no shame To dream a little on her softening gaze Had she divined.

That she is dead breeds no uncouth despair, However,—as death bred when men would bear A glove upon their helms, and slay or sing In honor of its giver, hazarding Life and life’s aims because a girl was fair ... Grotesque their liege-lord seems when we compare That Cupidling who spurs me to declare Sedate regret, in rhythmic sorrowing That she is dead. Nay, he is much the punier of the pair,— My little lord, who dreads lest critics stare Too pointedly,—a flimsy fainéant king;— Yet hearts may crack without crude posturing. This girl is dead; and I confess I care That she is dead.