have a deep glow, too, if you would see.
I would give proof of faith and fearlessness
if you would only care, and turn to me.
17
(TO R.A.C.)
The world will find me wiser and more kind
when you have gone; I’ve read my lesson well,
taking the best of you there was to learn,
seeing, though briefly, through your kindling eyes.
A child was fishing, and we stopped to see;
you climbed a cherry tree; we stayed beside
a colored beggar; and you showed me where
the periwinkle pushed up through the sod;
we watched one crooked moon break from the hills,
and saw a dark plane rise to merge with stars;
we talked until night turned around to light;
we laughed at nothing and at everything;
and when I sang somewhere within the house,
I stopped – to hear your music answering.
I cannot shut the door, and make an end,
and change into the old self: that would be
a true betrayal. It is best to take
all that you taught me, and to make it mine.
The world will find me wiser and more kind –
no brittle bitterness, no sterile hate
stays in these streets that you have walked of late.
I fear no evil, and my victory
gives me the lands wherein you made me free.
18
It is too late; you made me wait too long,
held my heart ringed with fire until the spell
broke and the flames were quieted to dust,
and I need wait no longer for your horn
sounding among the hills. I would be wise
to walk forgetting in this new release,
to give my free hands to this world’s demand,
God’s will – or the will of righteousness on earth –
too long was I apart from the needs of men,
single-starred and waiting, deep in sleep.
But lo, I rise and blow upon the ashes,
brush them aside, and seek the farthest hill,
calling your name and asking of your passage.
I am not free – I wait upon you still.
19
Now you are gone I shall not find delight
in dun soft hills at day’s end, strong spring rain,
the deep and star-flecked sky of summer’s night,
nor shall I feel the sharp, exquisite pain
of music reaching to immortal height
for beauty’s truth. I shall not have again
the vigor of the ocean clear my sight
till nought but sky and sea and you remain.
Now you are gone, who lifted all my soul
to planes undreamt of. Beauty through your eyes
gave new enchantment to the years that roll
in terrifying silence. I was wise
beyond all men – but now that you have fled,
the magic which you gave to me is dead.
20
(TO ANNE)
When you died the wind died, too
and lay in the earth, grieving,
and over the earth the dusk came slow;
why did you think of leaving?
There was too little of your peace,
too little of your treasure;
we would be wise still if we judged
the wide hills by your measure.
21
For you the night is still;
the moonlight on the hill
shall come no more. And I
whose life was touched with flame,
if I stay not the same
because the flame must die,
you will not know.
For me the night will change,
the moonlight not be strange,
nor silvered hill. And you
whose life was turned to dark
sleep on and do not mark
if this small heart stay true,
if love will go.
It is for me to keep
the beauty, while you sleep
unsullied peace. And I
who cannot stay the years
nor live them all in tears
must watch the vision die
unchecked and slow.
22
(TO F.K.)
The shadow on the grass,
the shadow thickens with the strength of sun,
but
