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Since wounded love has lost its grip on life,

And sees it like a night with horror rife,

Until the victim on some morning blither,

Does damn such meetings as that one in France.

For men at fifty may as truly love,

As boys of fifteen, and a little truer,

And, disappointed, feel the keenest pang,

But yet I have not heard a suitor hang

Himself, because he flatly failed to woo her,

Nor worth the while with rivals, have a row.

For wisdom grows with years, and manly reason

Becomes the load-star of the wanderer,

And man doth cease to be a woman’s slave,

For which she may despise him as a knave;

The “superman” she made, doth ponder her,

And knows, beneath her love is sometimes treason.

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Vienna has a noble shrine; ev’n then

It vied in glory with all Europe’s fanes,

St. Stephen;—thither did he go one day,

To see its beauty, more perchance, to pray,

For he would fain seek solace ’mongst the manes

Of the departed than the crowds of men.

There in the dimness of the lofty nave