LOVE, one while seen with wings of many dyes,
An infant mischief, but a God withal,—
Still changeth semblance with the changing call
Of human need; how have we known his eyes
Dark with the dire and passionate surprise
Of youthful sorrow, as the phantom tall,
Shrouded in Death's impenetrable pall,
Forced back his portal, ruthless of his cries.

Cold Death, that holdeth Love in such despite,
Trampling his roses, leaving him forlorn,—
The Lord of Love well knoweth to requite!
And you, Love's tyrant, have been made his scorn,
Since in the dunnest shadow of your night
First unto Love immortal Hope was born.