VII

O Heart, O Love, beware!—

      Look up, and boast not there.

      For who has twirled at the pin?

      'Tis the world, between Death and Sin,—

            The world, and the world's Despair!

      And Death has quickened his pace

      To the hearth, with a mocking face,

Familiar as Love, in Love's own place—

                        Heart, wilt thou go?

                              —"Still, no!

                  High hearts must grieve even so."