XXXI

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long

      Its fiery vigil in her single breast;

She fretted for the golden hour, and hung

      Upon the time with feverish unrest—

Not long—for soon into her heart a throng

      Of higher occupants, a richer zest,

Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,

And sorrow for her love in travels rude.