Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief
    Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm,
  Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief
    As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

  And at the sight of him, she wept the more,
    And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast;
  For lamentation finds an open door
    In the presence of the friends we love the best.

  Stifling, she cried:  “Behold the mournful matter! 
    In place of him thou seekest, what is found? 
  A something that the winds of heaven scatter,
    A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

  Arise, O Love!  For Spring knows no estranging,
    Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot;
  Man’s love for wife is ever doubtful, changing;
    Man’s love for man abides and changes not.

  With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion
    Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string,
  Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion—­
    The triple world has felt that arrow sting.

  But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning,
    A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain;
  And see!  I am his wick, with Love once burning,
    Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.

  In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter,
    For I am left.  And yet the clinging vine
  Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her
    Round him in loving tenderness to twine.

  So then, fulfil for me the final mission
    Of him who undertakes a kinsman’s part;
  Commit me to the flames (my last petition)
    And speed the widow to her husband’s heart.

  The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking;
    Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far;
  Wife follows mate, is law of nature’s making,
    Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.

  My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes
    Of him I loved with all a woman’s powers;
  Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes,
    As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.

  Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping
    On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped;
  Unto the end thy friendly office keeping,
    Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.

  And fan the flame to which I am committed
    With southern winds; I would no longer stay;
  Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted
    For Love, my love, when I was far away.

  And sprinkle some few drops of water, given
    In friendship, on his ashes and on me;
  That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven
    As once on earth, in heavenly unity.

  And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying;
    Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower
  Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying;
    For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower.”