If passion were but a contemporary
Of the hour and mood, we might forget;
But like a grinning vampire, it stalks its quarry
Across the years, while we must face its threat
Through dark, innumerable hours its brutish thirst
Is slaked; and then must bear to hear it ask
Why love becomes so frail, and why so cursed
With trembling fear and loathing of the task.
What an ancient bargain passion is:
Draining the sweet, white blood our hearts can give;
And yet, we seem bent to gratify this
Need . . . even to the end; and live
In silent faith that, by some strange
Provision, love will profit in exchange.