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  In my rhyme I fable anguish,
    Feigning that my love is dead,
  Playing at a game of sadness,
    Singing hope forever fled,--

  Trailing the slow robes of mourning,
    Grieving with the player's art,
  With the languid palms of sorrow
    Folded on a dancing heart.

  I must mix my love with death-dust,
    Lest the draught should make me mad;
  I must make believe at sorrow,
    Lest I perish, over-glad.


William Dean Howells