Whom the gods love die young. Ah, do not doubt of it.
Laura did well to die. Our loss was a gain for her,
Ours who so loved her laughter, ours who at thought of it
Shrink from a wound yet tender, wailing in vain for her.
Full was her life, a well--spring, brimmed to the brink of it,
Giving of its abundance alms to humanity.
We, with our life's cup empty, paused there to drink of it,
Rose with our souls ennobled, purged of their vanity.
Which of us all but loved her, knelt to her, prayed to her?
She was our queen, our Soul--saint, first in our Calendar.
``Laura,'' our lips breathed, ``Laura,'' vowing our aid to her,
Each as her fame's proclaimer, champion and challenger.
Which but might deem she loved him? Which, when she smiled on him,
Nursed not for his consoling dreams of felicity?
Which, in her eyes, read no hope, when like a child on him
Turned she those orbs appealing masked in simplicity?
Nay, there was none went wounded, even when ``No'' to him
Came as the last sad answer ending his argument.
``No?'' 'Twas hope's affirmation, boding no woe to him,
Rather a sweet postponing framed for encouragement.
Why should he weep? He wept not. Dear was her way with him.
Had she not given of all things more than he gave to her?
Had not her lips poured plenty, wise words and gay with him?
Why should his farewell falter, fool hands not wave to her?
I too with these essayed love. I too my joy with her
Sought in her wild girl's garden, idly, a censurer,
Learned what the rest had learned there, deemed like a boy with her
I too, that Laura loved me, kneeled my heart's venturer,
Wooed her and went forth weeping, yet with her name for me
Stored as a sweet remembrance deep in the heart of me,
Grieving my day departed; still as high fame for me
Chaunting it, each sad evening, proud as a part of me.
Whom the gods love! Ay truly. Why should we mourn for her
Dowered with all youth for portion, spared our infirmity?
Nay, 'twere for her to pity us, the forlorn for her,
Laughing her gay girl's laughter, glad through Eternity.
