Inertia. My young veins were rife
With manhood’s ardent blood; and love was fire
Within me. But you met my strong desire
With lips like frozen rose leaves—chaste, so chaste
That all your splendid beauty seemed but waste
Of love’s materials. Then of that beauty
Which had so pleased my sight
You seemed to take no care; you felt no duty
To keep yourself an object of delight
For lover’s-eyes; and appetite
And indolence soon wrought
Their devastating changes. You were not
The woman I had sworn to love and cherish.
If love is starved, what can love do but perish?
Now will you speak of my first fatal sin
And all that followed, even as I have done?