WORMWOOD

What is he whispering to her there Under the hedge-row spray? "Spring, Spring, Spring?"—Is the world so fair To him, fool, that he has no care As he cuckoos it all day? Is he quite sure—quite sure the sap Of life's not hate, but love? If I should tell him there's no gap Between her and a ... nameless hap, Would he still want his "dove"? Or would he go as blind to buds As I am, who watch here, While he is pouring poet floods From his thin lips, and while his blood's Burning for her so near? It would be swords—swords!... And his steel Should rip death from my breast. But would he ever know the feel Of Spring again, of its ribald reel, As once I did, the best? No! He would curse henceforward leaf And flower and light—as I. Spring?—It is fire, lust, ashes, grief— All that a Hell can hold, in fief!... He'll learn it ere he die.