THOUGH veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, Love is a sword which cuts its sheath, And through the clefts itself has made, We spy the flashes of the blade! But through the clefts itself has made, We likewise see Love's flashing blade By rust consumed, or snapt in twain; And only hilt and stump remain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DEFENSE OF THE ALAMO [MARCH 6, 1835] by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER ELEGIAC STANZAS by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SORROW OF LOVE (2) by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS AUTHOR TO HIS CHILD by FRANCES AIRTH SKY WRITING by MARY FINETTE BARBER VERSES TO AN INFANT by BERNARD BARTON |