Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark, <br />White as a dead stark-stricken dove: <br />None that pass by him pause to mark <br /> Dead love. <br /> <br />His heart, that strained and yearned and strove <br />As toward the sundawn strives the lark, <br />Is cold as all the old joy thereof. <br /> <br />Dead men, re-risen from dust, may hark <br />When rings the trumpet blown above: <br />It will not raise from out the dark <br /> Dead love.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-love/
