_Her name begins as Love begins,_
_Mine as "November", "Nevermore"._
No thousand nights and one between these covers,
No miniatures, enluminures or dyes--
For art is but a prostitute that hovers
To court outsiders--you alone may prize
These pages which your idle hand unties?--
... Leaving art to artists--we, loves lovers,
Keep for out-worn Beauty a disguise.
--(A line traced round a shadow as it dies,
Some semblance of the scattered rose recovers?)--
So making everything seem otherwise:
Associations are our deities!
--And ivy leaves, transparent eggs of plovers
Are fragments of the feast they symbolize.--
Here, visible as sleeping Eros, lies
A book of dreams and broken memories,
A living past for which blind Love has eyes?