So we come then at last,
To that place where lovers crawl and die.
For the broken hearted,
Where truth pays her debt for each lie.
Bride’s blushes to ashes,
Trust to dust,
Hear the sermon weep.
But we ourselves must lay awhile,
In Aphrodite’s citadel, like loveshorn sheep.
But wail you not,
You handsome ones.
For there’s nothing to fear or to hate.
Great loves all must pass this way,
Through love’s rusted, gilded gate.
And when once more the sun will shine,
Across this silvery dais,
Your love will rise again be sure.
And walk out through the morning haze.
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