no garden beyond, strangling

with its myrrh-lilies—

a hill, not set with black violets

but stones, stones, bare rocks,

dwarf-trees, twisted, no beauty

to distract—to crowd

madness upon madness.

Only a still place

and perhaps some outer horror

some hideousness to stamp beauty,

a mark—no changing it now—

on our hearts.

I send no string of pearls,

no bracelet—accept this.

[17]

[17]

EVENING

The light passes

from ridge to ridge,

from flower to flower—

 Prev. P 25/64 next