John Daniel Logan (1869–1929)

O WORLD that turneth as a vane that veers!

In what pure Isles beyond the sensual sight

Dwells Heliodore, whose presence was the light

Of Life’s obscure probationary spheres?—

We pledged her—fervently—our fairest years;

But she is fled; and, like the Eremite,—

Companion of the Caves and black-browed Night,—

We feed on Dust and drink the Cup of Tears.

Is there no bloom upon the empty earth

For us, O World—no other gift of bliss?

Ah, if of Love there be no second birth,

And for our longing lips no lips to kiss,

Grant us this saving boon,—if nothing more,—

Dear dreams of our first Love—lost Heliodore!