It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes, The last line has withered and curled.
In a tiny white heap of dead ashes Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were mad foolish vows in each letter, It is well they have shrivelled and burned, And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter, It was better removed and returned.
But ah, is it done? In the embers Where letters and tokens were cast, Have you burned up the heart that remembers, And treasures its beautiful past?
Do you think in this swift reckless fashion To ruthlessly burn and destroy The months that were freighted with passion, The dreams that were drunken with joy?
Can you burn up the rapture of kisses That flashed from the lips to the soul, Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses In spite of its strength of control?
Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers That thrilled through each pulse and each vein, Or the sound of a voice that still lingers And hurts with a haunting refrain?
Is it done? is the life drama ended?
You have put all the lights out, and yet, Though the curtain, rung down, has descended, Can the actors go home and forget?
Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping With a strange restless pain in their hearts, And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping, Will dream they are playing their parts.
