The One Before The Last

I dreamt I was in love again With the One Before the Last,

And smiled to greet the pleasant pain Of that innocent young past.

But I jumped to feel how sharp had been The pain when it did live,

How the faded dreams of Nineteen-ten Were Hell in Nineteen-five.

The boy's woe was as keen and clear,

The boy's love just as true,

And the One Before the Last, my dear,

Hurt quite as much as you.                    Sickly I pondered how the lover Wrongs the unanswering tomb,

And sentimentalizes over What earned a better doom.

Gently he tombs the poor dim last time,

Strews pinkish dust above,

And sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!

But

IS — ah,

God! — is Love!"— Better oblivion hide dead true loves,

Better the night enfold,

Than men, to eke the praise of new loves,

Should lie about the old!              Oh! bitter thoughts I had in plenty.

But here's the worst of it —I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty,

OU ever hurt abit!