“A ND men shall kill that which they love!'
Alas! that I should prove
This sorry truth!
I, in whose eager youth,
Myself did dedicate
To true love's high estate,—
That I should bring such dread and dire fate
Upon that, which to me
Stood with the Deity!

Yours was a spirit that had never quailed,
No matter how assailed,
Yours was a heart
That would have borne the dart
Of each indignity
That had not come from me,
Nor bowed a vanquished head.
But now I see
That spirit faint and dead,
Because I failed
In fine fidelity!

I cannot make it true
That I have so killed you,
That my strong arm,
Which longed to guard you safe from every harm,
Has been the weapon that has dealt the blow
Which lays you low,—
That my weak Faith
Has done you unto Death!

I had not thought to yield
To any man my right to stand as one
Who wooed the fiercest rays of Truth's hot sun
To break upon my shield.
And yet—
After long years of such liege loyalty,
With wild regret
I pay the sad arrears
Of bartered Faith's decree.

And you—
That which I loved and killed—
Your anguish now is stilled.
You, who once knew the gleam of perfect things,
You, who were wafted high on Love's strong wings.
Now fallen to earth by sudden heaviness,—
What torture to the one who struck the blow
That he should know
That you, so silent now, feel no distress—
Dead of Love's littleness!