Wormwood

What is he whispering to her there
Under the hedge-row spray?
"Spring, Spring, Spring?"--Is the world so fair
To him, fool, that he has no care
As he cuckoos it all day?

Is he quite sure--quite sure the sap
Of life's not hate, but love?
If I should tell him there's no gap
Between her and a ... nameless hap,
Would he still want his "dove"?

Or would he go as blind to buds
As I am, who watch here,
While he is pouring poet floods
From his thin lips, and while his blood's
Burning for her so near?

It would be swords--swords!... And his steel
Should rip death from my breast.
But would he ever know the feel
Of Spring again, of its ribald reel,
As once I did, the best?

No! He would curse henceforward leaf
And flower and light--as I.
Spring?--It is fire, lust, ashes, grief--
All that a Hell can hold, in fief!...
He'll learn it ere he die.