Glamor of bud, and blossom, and sweet May,
Glamor of life, and of love's burgeoning,
When through gray mists of eld a second spring
Glances a moment, flying — ah, welaway,
Needed there other witcheries, O fay,
Of olden rune's low crooning, and the swing
And rhythm of lissom limbs in mystic ring,
To charm the sage into thy thrall and prey?
But, ah, the horror of those eyes athirst
For draughts of fuller life, that drink for these
Thy soul's sly poison to the subtler lees,
Knowing it poison — seeing the past accurst,
To-day a lie, hope like a bubble burst,
And worse than death creep on by slow degrees!