Not actually a love poem, nor in anyway autobiographical. By the End of Love is meant the object for which love exists; love’s purpose.
I emptied out my chest-of-drawers,
I filled my portmanteau,
With raiment worn and tattered,
My poverty to shew.
I flung it on the carriage,
And climbed atop the seat,
The dappled mare before me,
Directed down the street.
The clatter of the weathered wain,
Against the cobbled stone,
Excited glances from the walks,
And left my person prone,
To sneers and jeers and epithets,
Cast out with malcontent,
Like, “Guv’ner, need a footman?
“I’ll save ye ten percent!”
I stoically proceeded,
Unto the country lanes,
Where skylarks sing in springtime,
And heather stains the plains.
I grasped my flask and drained it,
And stared into the sun,
My sorry life oppressed me,
The sky about me spun.
And then I glimpsed a maiden,
Entwined in goss’mer thread,
With rosy cheeks and pallid skin,
A halo round her head.
She danced about the meadow,
Carefree and filled with joy,
I wept to see her beauty,
Unstained, without alloy.
She beckened me, come hither,
Stock still, I couldn’t move,
She came to me, my heart it leapt,
I’d found the End of Love.