I am glad you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look.

It is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their
own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. But day will dawn,
my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping.


Who says it is hard to forget?

The mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own
foolish persistence.

The stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking cradle; the forest fire
falls to sleep on its bed of ashes.

You and I shall part, and the cleavage will be hidden under living grass
and flowers that laugh in the sun.



15


Of all days you have chosen this one to visit my garden.

But the storm passed over my roses last night and the grass is strewn with
torn leaves.

I do not know what has brought you, now that the hedges are laid low and