I grow so tired I almost cease to care,
And yet I would that he might come once more.
It was the wind I heard, that mocks at me,
The bitter wind that is more cruel than he;
It was the wind that knocked upon the door,
But he will never knock nor enter more.
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As the waves of perfume, heliotrope,rose,
Come to us, go from us, whence no one knows;So the old tunes float in my mind,And go from me leaving no trace behind,Like fragrance borne on the hush of the wind.but in the instant the airs remainI know the laughter and the painOf times that will not come again.I try to catch at many…
I hid the love within my heart,
That when we meet he may not knowMy love that never dies.But sometimes when he dreams at nightOf fragrant forests green and dim,It may be that my love crept outAnd brought the dream to him.And sometimes when his heart is sickAnd suddenly grows well again,It may be that my love was thereTo free his life…
Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Come with outstretched arms to take me,Come with lips pursed up to cling.Come, for life is a frail moth flyingCaught in the web of the years that pass,And soon we two,so warm and eager,Will be as the gray stones in the grass.
I am free of love as a bird flying south in the autumn,
Glad to forget all of the passion of AprilEre it was love-free.I am free of love, and I listen to music lightly,But if he returned, if he should look at me deeply,I should awake, I should awake and rememberI am my lover’s.
I turned the key and opened wide the door
Where thro’ the long hot months the dust had lain.Was it not lonely when across the floorNo step was heard, no sudden song that boreMy whole heart upward with a joyous pain?Were not the pictures and the volumes fainTo have me with them always as before?But Giorgione’s Venus did not deignTo lift her lids, nor…
(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…