Wearing awhile a windy grace
And passing like an autumn leaf.
They wonder why I do not weep,
They think it strange that I can sing,
They say, ‘Her love was scarcely deep
Since it has left so slight a sting.’
They never saw my love, nor knew
That in my heart’s most secret place
I pity them as angels do
Men who have never seen God’s face.
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When beauty grows too great to bear
For beauty more than bitternessMakes the heart break.Now while I watch the dreaming seaWith isles like flowers against her breast,Only one voice in all the worldCould give me rest.
(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)
Where there is neither flag nor drum,And without sound of musketryThe stealthy foemen come.Year in, year out, by day and nightThey forced him to a slow retreat,And for his gallant fight aloneNo fife was blown, and no drum beat.In winter fog, in gathering mistThe gray grim battle had its end—And at the very last we…
When I am dead and over me bright April
Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted,I shall not care.I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peacefulWhen rain bends down the bough;And I shall be more silent and cold-heartedThan you are now.
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,
Remember nothing, as the blowing sandForgets the palm where long blue shadows creepWhen winds along the darkened desert sweep?Or would it still remember, tho’ it spannedA thousand heavens, while the planets fannedThe vacant ether with their voices deep?Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot,Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we seeThe desolation of extinguished…
We held the book together timidly,
Once rose among the dew-drenched vines that hungBeneath a high Castilian balcony.I felt the lute strings’ ancient ecstasy,And while he read, my love-filled heart was stung,And throbbed, as where an ardent bird has clungThe branches tremble on a blossomed tree.Oh lady for whose sake the song was made,Laid long ago in some still cypress shade,Divided…
I sang my songs for the rest,
The tree of my song is bareOn its shining hill.For you came like a lordly wind,And the leaves were whirledFar as forgotten thingsPast the rim of the world.The tree of my song stands bareAgainst the blue —I gave my songs to the rest,Myself to you.