When Passion Fails Us
When passion fails us, and when Woman fails, —
When we are weary of the roses scent
And not one song can bring our souls content,
Yea, when the very flush on Love's cheek pales, —
What help is left us then, — what hope avails?
What pleasure tarrieth when Love's robes are rent
Asunder, and his golden hours are spent,
And the wind whistles round his house and wails?
When even Woman's lips are no more red,
And the sun ceases, and the silver moon
Is tarnished, and the pleasant stars are dead,
And sorrow murmurs through the bowers of June,
Is there a Power to lift the weary head
And turn life's darkness into golden noon?
When we are weary of the roses scent
And not one song can bring our souls content,
Yea, when the very flush on Love's cheek pales, —
What help is left us then, — what hope avails?
What pleasure tarrieth when Love's robes are rent
Asunder, and his golden hours are spent,
And the wind whistles round his house and wails?
When even Woman's lips are no more red,
And the sun ceases, and the silver moon
Is tarnished, and the pleasant stars are dead,
And sorrow murmurs through the bowers of June,
Is there a Power to lift the weary head
And turn life's darkness into golden noon?
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