VIII

Tonight it seems to be the same
As when we two would sit
With struggling breath beside the river.
How slowly the moon came
Above the hill; how wet
With shaking silver she arose
Above the hill.
Now in the sultry garden close
I hear the katydid
Strumming his foolish mandolin.
The wind is lying still,
And suddenly amid
The trembling boughs the moon expands into a scarlet flame.

What charm can bid the mind forget,
And sleep in peace forever,
Beyond the ghosts of ancient sin,
Lost laughter, barren tears.

And you, my dear, have slept four thousand years,
Beneath the Pyramid.

Brussels, 1918


IX