WHAT IS LOVE?

WHAT IS LOVE?

IS IT NOT THAT WHICH PLEASES,

IF ONLY FOR AN HOUR, A YEAR, AN ETERNITY?

CAN WE LOVE BUT ONE?

SHOULD WE CHOOSE ONE GRAIN OF SAND FROM THE SHORE,

ONE DROP OF WATER FROM THE MIGHTY SEA,

AND DECLARE IT SPECIAL,

AND SCORN ALL ELSE?

IS THIS NOT FOLLY,

WHEN THE WORLD IS SO BIG,

AND THE HEART AS GREAT?

J. P. BESSOR

THE DEPARTED DANGER

ARISTION, SO SWIFT ONCE TO TOSS

HER HAIR CURLING

AND HER CASTANETS THAT ROLLED

IN PRAISE OF CYBELE,

LIGHTLY BENEATH THE PINE-BOUGHS

TO THE HORNED FLUTE'S MUSIC WHIRLING,

SHE WHO WOULD MIX NO WATER

AS SHE QUAFFED HER WINE CUPS THREE,

RESTS HERE BENEATH THE ELM TREE'S SHADE;

NOW NO MORE LOVERS

GLADDEN HER HEART, NO VIGILS OF

MADDENED MIDNIGHT HOURS.

A LONG FAREWELL, ALL REVELS, ALL FOLLIES!

NEW EARTH COVERS THE SACRED HEAD

THAT ONCE WENT BRIGHT WITH

WREATHED FLOWERS.

THYILLES (100 B. C.)

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