To a lustful thirst she came at first And gave him her maiden's pride; And the first man scattered the flower of her love, Then turned to his chosen bride. She waned with grief as a fading star, And waxed as a shining flame; And the second man had her woman's love, But the second was playing the game. With passion she stirred the man who was third; Woe's me! what delicate skill She plied to the heart that knew her art And fled from her wanton will. Now calm and demure, oh fair, oh pure, Oh subtle, patient and wise, She trod the weary round of life, With a sorrow deep in her eyes. Now a hero who knew how false, how true Was the speech that fell from her lips, With a Norseman's strength took sail with her, And landed and burnt his ships. He gave her pity, he gave her mirth, And the hurt in her heart he nursed; But under the silence of her brows Was a dream of the man who was first. And all the deceit and lust of men Had sharpened her own deceit; And down to the gates of hell she led Her friend with her flying feet. For a bitten bud will never bloom, And a woman lost is lost! And the first and the third may go unscathed, But some man pays the cost. And the books of life are full of the rune, And this is the truth of the song: No man can save a woman's soul, Nor right a woman's wrong. LOVE IS A MADNESS Love is a madness, love is a fevered dream, A white soul lost in a field of scarlet flowers-- Love is a search for the lost, the ever vanishing gleam Of wings, desires and sorrows and haunted hours. Will the look return to your eyes, the warmth to your hand? Love is a doubt, an ache, love is a writhing fear. Love is a potion drunk when the ship puts out from land, Rudderless, sails at full, and with none to steer. The end is a shattered lamp, a drunken seraph asleep, The upturned face of the drowned on a barren beach. The glare of noon is o'er us, we are ashamed to weep-- The beginning and end of love are devoid of speech. ON A BUST Your speeches seemed to answer for the nonce-- They do not justify your head in bronze! Your essays! talent's failures were to you Your philosophic gamut, but things true, Or beautiful, oh never! What's the pons For you to cross to fame?--Your head in bronze?