HE INADVERTENTLY 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-

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