Have these forgotten they are toys of Death
That in his sad aphelions of desire
They still regret the joy that perisheth,
And Spring's great reveries that exceed and tire,—
Faintly accusing Love's unmercied yokes
With almost wanton grace, the craft and art
Of precious frailty that with subtle strokes
Of sweetness finds the core of Passion's heart?
They carry fans and mirrors, or make fast
The mournful flute-like cadence of a veil.
Slight fans that winnowed souls, mirrors that glassed
The burning brooding wings which never fail!
Still in such lovely vanities to-day
The gods their secret wisdom hide away.