LOVE is dead, they say;
Where is he laid away?
I would see him, stark and fair,
Cut a lock of his shining hair,
Kiss his lips, however cold,—
Poor Love, sweet Love,
Who lived not to grow old.
Love? We laid him here,
On a flower-strewn bier,
Yet he’s gone, we know not where.
Lift the pall, — was he ever there ?
When his soul is fled away,
His form will never stay.
Marion Couthouy Smith.