And time could heal a hurt, they said,
And time could dim a vow.
And they were pitiful and mild
Who whispered to me then,
‘The heart that breaks in April, child,
Will mend in May again.’
Oh, many a mended heart they knew.
So old they were, and wise.
And little did they have to do
To come to me with lies!
Who flings me silly talk of May
Shall meet a bitter soul;
For June was nearly spent away
Before my heart was whole.
And so the intimate places of your heart,Kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession.Softly you told of loves that went before-Of clinging arms, of kisses gladly given;Luxuriously clean of heart once more,You rose up, then, and stood before me, shriven.When this, my day of happiness, is through,And love, that bloomed so fair, turns brown…
Who’ll not relate, in accents suave,The tales of girls he used to have?
Whilst those whose love is thin and wiseMay view John Knox in Paradise.
Gay the wanton rain begins;Hide the limp and tearful willow.Turn aside your eyes and ears,Trail away your robes of sorrow,You shall have my further years-You shall walk with me tomorrow.I am sister to the rain;Fey and sudden and unholy,Petulant at the windowpane,Quickly lost, remembered slowly.I have lived with shades, a shade;I am hung with graveyard…
And ever set a tiny shockThrough strangers asking what’s o’clock;Whose days are spent in whittling rhyme-What’s time to her, or she to Time?
And sweet’s the air with curly smokeFrom all my burning bridges.
