Scatter The Silver Ash Like Snow

O, what insect is it     That burrows in the heart and frets     The heart's near nerves,     Leaving its unclean     Stigmata in the mind serene,     Making the proud how mean?     It is not common hate,     Anger has not such deadly cunning     To annul, to chill.     Wild anger is not     So cunning even while so hot;     Hate is too soon forgot.     There is no sword so sharp     With lightnings as the wanton tongue;     Nothing that burns like words--     Bubbling flames that spread     In the now unspiritual head,     By sleepless fevers fed.     O evil words that are     The knives of desolating thought!     And though words be still     The hot eyes yet dart     Burning deaths from this mad heart     Into that torn heart.     O Love, forget, forget,     Put by that glittering edge, put by;     Slay the insect with light;     Smother that smoky glow,     Scatter the silver ash like snow     When thy spring airs blow!