He Has Fallen from the Height of His Love

Love, how ignobly hast thou met thy doom! 
Ill-seasoned scaffolding by which, full-fraught 
With passionate youth and mighty hopes, we clomb 
To our heart’s heaven, fearing, doubting, naught! 
Oh love, thou wert too frail for such mad sport, 
Too rotten at thy core, designed too high: 
And we who trusted thee our death have bought, 
And bleeding on the ground must surely die. 
—I will not see her. What she now may be 
I care not. For the dream within my brain 
Is fairer, nobler, and more kind than she; 
And with that vision I can mock at pain. 
God! Was there ever woman half so sweet, 
Or death so bitter, or at such dear feet?