Upon the hopeless desert of her love
I landed, lured by glamour of her face.
And, scarce on shore,--a desolate strange place,--
I said,--but surely some green cedar grove
Awaits me, proffering its cooling shade,
And in its depths melodious fountains spring;
So tear the canvas from the masts and bring
Planks, beams, and spars until the pile be laid.
Then with my own mad hands I lit the fire,
And watched with fevered eyes the dark ma** burn,
So blotting out the prospect of return.
But daily cools the pulse of my desire,
And bitter is the redness of her lips.
Oh! god of love, why did I burn my ships?