Love in jeopardy

Here by the rose-tree

they planted once
of Love in jeopardy

an Italian bronze.

Not love the conqueror,

not love with wings,
but a boy waiting for

perilous things:

his bow unstrung,

unsounded the zither,
and the delicate young

hands clasped together.

As grave as the first

boy with the first maiden,
outside of the curst

closed gates of Eden.

But they have ravished

away this love,
and he is not cherished

nor spoken of,

save, whenas fluted

from Eden, blows
for two the transmuted

phrase of the rose,

thorn-note, blossom-note,

note of the petal,
cool as the rain, but

trembling a little

as though, brought hither

from far, one sung
to a mute zither,

with bow unstrung,

how by a rose-tree

they planted once
of Love in Jeopardy

an Italian bronze.