Ah, shattered form, thy beauty, chaste as frost,
Once held in thrall the heart of lord and swain.
While Cupid sped his strongest shafts in vain
Thou didst not dream the price thy triumph cost,
Or know thy charm would be forever lost,
When Time with jealous wind or flood should stain
Thy snowy brow in grime or part in twain
Thy marble heart in fervent holocaust!
Thy spell is gone; but oh, the maid whose heart
Was riven by the little wing-ed god
That dipped his arrow in the scarlet stream
Of my own life, shall triumph over Art
And Time,— my love, whose ardent pulsing blood
Shall quicken other lives and reign supreme!