Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/152

 Scorn only, scorn begot of bitter proof By keen experience of a trustless heart, Bears burning in her new-born hand the dart Wherewith love dies heart-stricken, and the roof Falls of his palace, and the storied woof Long woven of many a year with life's whole art Is rent like any rotten weed apart, And hardly with reluctant eyes aloof Cold memory guards one relic scarce exempt Yet from the fierce corrosion of contempt, And hardly saved by pity. Woe are we That once we loved, and love not; but we know The ghost of love, surviving yet in show, Where scorn has passed, is vain as grief must be.