Love Reft of Hope

As one whom Hope hath failed, Love walks alone, —
No more on festivals his godhead shines;
Nor bides he where lamps burn before his shrines;
But in gray twilights by chill breezes blown,
Where waters sob, and hapless voices moan,
He strays, and with their wail his voice combines:
His voice, now sad as sound of wind through pines,
That once with triumphing music called his own.

See how the wreath has faded round his head, —
His weary head, that droops upon his breast;
His thorn-pierced feet are weak, yet may not rest.
Ah, dig beneath the willow-tree his bed:
His one dear Hope being slain, were it not best
He should himself with that lost Hope lie dead?