Fore-loved, fore-crowned, and fore-betrayed,
And thrice our quality been weighed,
And thrice our hearts been spit with steel
To prove us worthier to feel
Both love and hate creep through that blade,
The wings of doom press tip to tip,
And all dead hands like bricks are laid
And reach like mansions to the sky ---
The parting, weeping lip to lip,
That all things born must always die.
And that the seed of Nothing lies
Yet here within this envied Much ---
So we are forecast, and of such
The child’s first sobbing prophesies.
= Monica Ammerman