STIFF-NECKED, infatuate, and unbefriended,
the mind
stands horror-struck to find
the heart so easily, so early, mended.
Poor mind, false in your faithfulness,
drill sense
into a loyal pretense
that nothing of this love is changed or less.
Walk the old paths, and fasten on forsaken
old ways. . . .
No. All your jealous praise
leaves the heart cold, and you by fury shaken.
Oh, with what art will you seduce the artless?
Willful in grief,
confess at last belief
that the true heart must, to be true, be heartless.