John Ford

* * *

Oh, no more, no more, too late
Sighs are spent; the burning tapers
Of a life as chaste as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burned out; no heat, no light
Now remains; ‘tis ever night.

Love is dead; let lovers’ eyes,
Locked in endless dreams,
Th’ extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies.
Now Love dies---implying
Love’s martyrs must be ever, ever dying.