Disarmed

O love, so sweet at first. So bitter in the end! Thou canst be fiercest foe, As well as fairest friend. Are these poor withered leaves The fruitage of thy May? Thou that wert strong to save, How art thou swift to slay! Ay, thou art swift to slay, Despite thy kiss and clasp, Thy long, caressing look, Thy subtle, thrilling grasp! Ay, swifter far to slay Than thou art strong to save, And selfish in thy need, And cruel as the grave. Yes, cruel as the grave,— Go, go, and come no more! But canst thou set my heart Just where it was before? Go, go,—and come no more! Go, leave me with my tears, The only gift of thine That shall outlive the years. Yet shall outlive the years One other, cherished thing, Slight as a vagrant plume Shed from some passing wing:— The memory of thy first Divine, half-timid kiss. Go! I forgive thee all In weeping over this!