Love not! love not! ye hopeless sons of clay

Every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay.

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning— Oh friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning.

I am listening for the voices Which I heard in days of old.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears.

We have been friends together In sunshine and in shade. Since first beneath the chestnut-tree In fancy we played But coldness dwells within thine heart A cloud is on thy brow.

O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.