You, Love, no longer come to my dead eyes;
For you my heart weeps, its ideals unshunned.
Still open are the chalices to run
Autumnal hosts near your auroral wines.
Divine cross, Love, my deserts need your dew,
Your astral blood that yields both dreams and cries.
You, Love, no longer come to my dead eyes,
Which fear and seek your teary dawn anew!
I love you not, O Love, when you are far,
And raffled off in beards of merry bards,
Or short and fragile women's healthy glow.
Come fleshless Love as stunning ichor flows;
That I, in Godlike ways formed from this dust,
Might love and might create devoid of lust!