I wonder if sometimes in the dusk, When the brave lights that gild thy evenings Have not yet been touched with flame, I wonder if sometimes in the dusk Thou rememberest a time, A time when thou loved me And our love was to thee thy all? Is the memory rubbish now? An old gown Worn in an age of other fashions? Woe is me, oh, lost one, For that love is now to me A supernal dream, White, white, white with many suns.

 

 

 

 

Love met me at noonday, —Reckless imp, To leave his shaded nights And brave the glare,— And I saw him then plainly For a bungler, A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler, Breaking the hearts of brave people As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl, And I cursed him, Cursed him to and fro, back and forth, Into all the silly mazes of his mind, But in the end He laughed and pointed to my breast, Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved.

 

 

 

 

I have seen thy face aflame For love of me, Thy fair arms go mad, Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave. And—surely— This should leave a man content? Thou lovest not me now, But thou didst love me, And in loving me once Thou gavest me an eternal privilege, For I can think of thee.

 

 

 

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