Is Romance a dance
Born not to last?
So we find ourselves
Mourning romantic things in the past?
Is it doubt and forgetful death
Which lends charm
To love—a charm in every sighing breath
So charming we forget the alarm
That is sighing in company with love’s sigh
So love becomes indistinguishable with death?
And we don’t see the sorrow—beautiful sorrow!—in her eye
Which makes her eye beautiful
But is the very sorrow
Which will fall in love with sorrow
And say goodbye?
I’m afraid it is so.
One left me, even as love was at its height;
We had spent many a delirious night
In each other’s arms,
And when, in disbelief, I asked her,
In icy tones, she said: “I don’t know.”
Love melted into sorrow.
I fled to madly analyze the past.
She smiled calmly on tomorrow.
