| |
|
THINE emulous
fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft
sun-assaulter, he
That frighted thee so oft, is fled
or dead:
Save only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the
fields.
The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is
long ago--
It seems forever--
Since first I saw
thee glance,
With all the dazzling other ones,
In
airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed,
tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a limp
rose-wreath in a fairy dance.
When that was, the soft
mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I
was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.
Thou
didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That
fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With
those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.
And
there were other things:
It seemed God let thee
flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had
let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle grasp.
Ah! I
remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against
my life--
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The
breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in
a wand!
Then when I was distraught
And could not
speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should
that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy
dye-dusty wing!
I found that wing broken to-day!
For thou are dead, I said,
And the strange birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves.
|
|
|
