* * *
Oh, no more, no more, too late Sighs are spent; the burning tapers Of a life as chaste as fate, Pure as are unwritten papers, Are burned out; no heat, no light Now remains; ‘tis ever night. Love is dead; let lovers’ eyes, Locked in endless dreams, Th’ extremes of all extremes, Ope no more, for now Love dies. Now Love dies---implying Love’s martyrs must be ever, ever dying.
John Ford’s other poems:
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