Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/185

 Behold your eyes are in the stead Of these dead,— Pure seas of looks, with many a shore Of worlds more; Behold, instead of these poor moulds, These mere casts In some first clay—no stuff that holds Love that lasts—

Why! life—that love; and then its fresh Robe of flesh, With—O what chords of sense that thrill With love's will, Unchecked by death or weariness, Those dull foes Of every feeling, more or less, The world knows!

In place of all the glassy cheats— Your true sweets, —Of all the lives with which Death plays, All the days