Love undoes its heritage quite
slowly,
Spinning like a planet through its dust.
Sometimes it feels like hatred, sometimes mourning,
Sometimes pain long paralyzed by rust.
Sometimes shame of past humiliation
Wrings the heart with hands inured to toil,
And once again some drops of unspent fury
Spill upon the dry and barren soil.
Ay, me! When will it end? The seasoned sorrow
Of unforgiven trespasses of old?
No matter new love blossoming! There's somewhere
A place within untenanted and cold.