NOT now, but later, when the road We tread together breaks apart, When thou, my dearest, distant art, And tedious days have swelled the load Upon my heart. Or haply after that, when I Am sealed within an earthy bed, Resting and unrememberÈd, This scene will speak and easily The whole be said. Some eve, when from his burning chair The sun below Fusina slips, And all the sable poplar tips Wave in the warm vermilion air, The wind, the lips Of the soft breeze with wayward touch Shall tell thee all I longed to own; And thou, on lurid lakes alone, Wilt say: “Poor soul, he loved me much; And he is gone. Percy C. Pinkerton. |