The Love Sonnets of Proteus, To Manon, XIV: He has fallen from the Height of his Love

Love, how ignobly hast thou met thy doom !
Ill-seasoned scaffolding by which, full-fraught
With passionate youth and mighty hopes, we clomb
To our heart's heaven, fearing, doubting, naught !
Oh love, thou wert too frail for such mad sport,
Too rotten at thy core, designed too high :
And we who trusted thee our death have bought,
And bleeding on the ground must surely die.
— I will not see her. What she now may be
I care not. For the dream within my brain
Is fairer, nobler, and more kind than she ;
And with that vision I can mock at pain.
God ! Was there ever woman half so sweet,
Or death so bitter, or at such dear feet ?