SONNET—THE DEPARTURE OF LOVE.

Spirit of wordless Love, that in the lone Bowers of the Poet’s museful soul dost weave Tissues of thought, hued like the skies of eve, Ere the last glories of the sun have shone, How soon—almost before our hearts have known The change—above the ruins of thy throne— Whose vanished beauty we would fain retrieve With all Earth’s thrones beside—we stand and grieve! We weep not, for the world’s chill breath hath bound In chains of ice the fountains of our tears, But ever-mourning Memory thenceforth rears Her altars upon desecrated ground, And always, with a low despairful sound, Tolls the disastrous bell of all our years! M.