Go you and build a temple to the skies, and make
Your soul an alter-offering on the pile;
Then, from its lightning-riven ruin, take
Your crushed and bleeding self, and calmly smile.

When loud, and fierce, and wild, a storm sweeps o'er your rest,
Say that it soothes you--brings you peace again;
Laugh while the hot steel quivers in your breast,
And "make believe" you love the scorching pain.

See every earthly thing your life is woven round,
Fall, drop by drop, until your heart is sieved!
Go mad and writhe, and moan upon the ground,
And curse, and die, and say that you have prayed and lived!

Then come to me, as now, and I will take your hand,
And look upon your face and smile and say:
"All were not born to hold a magic wand;
Cheer up, my friend, you must be brave always."




WHEN THE ROSES GO.

You tell me you love me; you bid me believe
That never such lover could mean to deceive.
You tell me the tale which a million times
Has been told, and talked, and sung in rhymes;