I BURIED Joy; and early to the tomb
I came to weep--so sorrowful was I
Who had not dreamed that Joy, my Joy, could die.

I turned away, and by my side stood Joy
All glorified--ah, so ashamed was I
Who dared to dream that Joy, my Joy, could die!




The Lost Name


THE voice of my true love is low
And exquisitely kind,
Warm as a flower, cold as snow--
I think it is the Wind.

My true love's face is white as mist
That moons have lingered on,
Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed--
I think it is the Dawn.

The breath of my true love is sweet
As gardens at day's close
When dew and dark together meet--
I think it is a Rose.

My true love's heart is wild and shy