The sky was blue, so blue that day
And each daisy white, so white,
O, I knew that no more could rains fall grey
And night again be night.
I knew, I knew. Well, if night is night,
And the grey skies greyly cry,
I have in a book for the candle light,
A daisy dead and dry.
Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch
I broke and bruised your rose.
I hardly could suppose
It were a thing so fragile that my clutch
Could kill it, thus.
It stood so proudly up upon its stem,
I knew no thought of fear,
And coming very near
Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem,
Tearing it down.
Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one,
The crimson petals, all
Outspread about my fall.
They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone
Of memory.
And with my words I carve a little jar
I LAY them before you,
One, two, three silver pieces.
And a copper piece
Dulled with handling.
The first will buy you a cake.
The second a flower.
The third a coloured bead.
The fourth will buy you nothing at all.
Since it has a hole in it.
I beg you, therefore.
String it about your neck.
At least it will remind you of my poverty.
Red foxgloves against a yellow wall streaked with plum-coloured shadows ;
A lady with a blue and red sunshade ;
The slow dash of waves upon a parapet.
That is all.
Non-existent — immortal —
As solid as the centre of a ring of fine gold.
In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying ;
And when I came into my garden.
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch.
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
Because there was no wind.
The smoke of your letters hung in the air
For a long time ;
And its shape
Was the shape of your face.
My Beloved.
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight ;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves ;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves.
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park.
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces.
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war.
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers.
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate.
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box.
For I have time for nothing
Silver-green lanterns tossing among windy branches :
So an old man thinks
Of the loves of his youth.
One night
When there was a clear moon,
I sat down
To write a poem
About maple-trees.
But the dazzle of moonlight
In the ink
Blinded me.
And I could only write
What I remembered.
Therefore, on the wrapping of my poem
I have inscribed your name.
And now it is all to be done over again,
And what will come of it only God can know.
What has become of the furrows ploughed by pain,
And the plants set row on row ?
Where are the lines of beautiful bending trees,
The gracious springs, the depths of delicate shade,
The sunny spaces loud with the humming of bees,
And the grassy paths in the garden my life had made?
Lightning and earthquake now have blasted and riven ;
Even the trees that I trusted could not stand:
Now it lies here to the bitter winds of heaven,
A barren and a desolated land.
When a storm comes up at night and the wind is crying,
When the trees are moaning like masts on laboring ships,
I wake in fear and put out my hand to find you
With your name on my lips.
No pain that the heart can hold is like to this one —
To call, forgetting, into aching space,
To reach out confident hands and find beside you
Only an empty place.
This should atone for the hours when I forget you.
Take then my offering, clean and sharp and sweet,
An agony brighter than years of dull remembrance.
I lay it at your feet.
I know you are too dear to stay;
You are so exquisitely sweet:
My lonely house will thrill some day
To echoes of your eager feet.
I hold your words within my heart.
So few, so infinitely dear;
Watching your fluttering hands I start
At the corroding touch of fear.
A faint, unearthly music rings
From you to Heaven — it is not far!
A mist about your beauty clings
Like a thin cloud before a star.
My heart shall keep the child I knew.
When you are really gone from me.
And spend its life remembering you
As shells remember the lost sea.