by Luis G. Dato
The glory then of loving pratest thou,
Although the love be vain? Thus others, yet
Not so the heart that wills not to forget,
And they who speak, of love’s woe do they know?
For rather that a life had died, since thus
It dies but once, than that a love should die;
For see, wan not for this that e’en the sky
Darkens for vain love of the sun, and us?
For rather that man ne’er know living than
That the fair set at naught his love for her;
From voiceless Time, fate willed that men should err,
War, die, but love’s the balm and bane of man;
Ah, gloom of earth when love’s not love nor bliss,
Death has no sting comparable to this.
