Poem by Aubrey Thomas De Vere

Love's Spite

You take a town you cannot keep;
And, forced in turn to fly,
O'er ruins you have made shall leap
Your deadliest enemy!
Her love is yours--and be it so--
But can you keep it? No, no, no!

Upon her brow we gazed with awe,
And loved, and wished to love, in vain,
But when the snow begins to thaw
We shun with scorn the miry plain.
Women with grace may yield: but she
Appeared some Virgin Deity.

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest
Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen:
Cold looked she as the waveless breast
Of some stone Diana at thirteen.
Men loved: but hope they deemed to be
A sweet impossibility!

1. Kinsale
2. To a Flower on the Skirts of Mont Blanc
3. A Ballad of Athlone; Or, How They Broke down the Bridge
4. Roisin Dubh; Or, the Bleeding Heart
5. Composed at Rydal, September, 1860

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