And why were you created in their likeness, And why was I ordained to be your slave, If in the twilight I must dig a grave, Wherein to hide my heart from morning's brightness?
I tell you no! I will not leave untasted One drop of sweetness life may hold for me: Who scorns the present for eternity I count that soul a sorry fool and wasted.
Oh! weary ghosts, be still! Sad spectres of long dead delights, Wan spirits of the days and nights Wherein of joy we drank our fill, Lie deep beneath the sod of years. To-day, to-day is mine! Ye shall not blight its fragrant flowers, Nor mar the passing of its hours, That love has rendered all divine, By woeful sighs and falling tears.
This is the sphere of life, Wherein the long forgotten dead Unwelcome should forbear to tread, Within my veins hot blood runs rife, But ye are colder than the grave! What would ye have of me? What price that penance did not pay, What sacrifice of human clay? Must my delight again set free Be tethered to a witless slave?
While still upon this earth Ye lived, and 'neath the joyous sun Were warm and fair to look upon, I blest the hour that gave ye birth, And all my life laid at your feet. The homage of my youth I daily offered at your shrine, Nor counted dear those gifts of mine Which sapped the very strength of truth, And left her poor and incomplete.
Nor did condemn the lust, The soul destroying tyranny, With which ye wrought my misery, For in my heart was endless trust, My spirit, dauntless, knew no fear. Ye cry that ye were slain Alas! it was not I who slew, For all my hopes were buried too Within that hour of death and pain, And there remained not e'en a tear.
Nay, it was fate whose hand Upraised to strike the awful blow Decreed that ye must die, and go Lamented to that shadow land Of lost illusions perished soon! Wherein the once-time-young Thro' countless ages seek, nor find, Their vanished youth; with wandering mind They sing the songs that once they sung, But never may complete the tune.
Hence—hence! it is not yet The hour wherein I too must pass, The sand runs still within the glass, And I would live and fain forget Those bygone things that once ye were. My lips have touched the rose, And in its perfumed breast the dew Has quenched my thirst; and lo! anew The petals of my heart unclose, My pulses throb, my senses stir.