Rumour

An afterthought

Love sees love with a jaundiced eye,
Its pupil pale and yellow.
Swallowing distances with a blink, a lie,
Its lashes limp and sallow.
Will the deaden lids stay closed and sick?
Will the tears not vainly follow?
Will the pulse of sight not a worn heart kick,
Will the vision of truth be less than hollow?
Still be still, this disease sight,
Still be unto sorrow.
Peace to peace, this tepid slight,
Peace be unto morrow.

No more, or less;
Hurt is a tedious thought.
No sin, confess;
Pain is tender, overwrought.
How far, we bruise;
Swollen pride deflates.
How close, we cruise;
Inconsequent debates.