born of ennui

They are mockery all--these skies, these skies,
Their untroubled depth of blue-
They are mockery all--those eyes, those eyes,
Which seem so warm and true;
Each tranquil star in the one that lies,
Each meteor glance that at random flies
The other's lashes through!
They are mockery all, these flowers of spring,
Which her airs so softly woo--
And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay, it is mockery too!
The winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the looks deceive to which we sue;
And love but leads to the sepulchre,
Which flowers spring to strew.

- Charles Fenno Hoffman