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Innsley, Owen: Burnt Ships
Burnt Ships

Upon the hopeless desert of her love
I landed, lured by glamour of her face.
And, scarce on shore,--a desolate strange place,--
I said,--but surely some green cedar grove

Awaits me, proffering its cooling shade,
And in its depths melodious fountains spring;
So tear the canvas from the masts and bring
Planks, beams, and spars until the pile be laid.

Then with my own mad hands I lit the fire,
And watched with fevered eyes the dark mass burn,
So blotting out the prospect of return.

But daily cools the pulse of my desire,
And bitter is the redness of her lips.
Oh! god of love, why did I burn my ships?

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