  WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves! What tender thought, what speechless pain! I hold thy faded lips to mine, Thou darling of the April rain! I hold thy faded lips to mine, Though scent and azure tint are fled— O dry, mute lips! ye are the type Of something in me cold and dead: Of something wilted like thy leaves; Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim; Yet for the love of those white hands That found thee by a river’s brim— That found thee when thy dewy mouth Was purpled as with stains of wine— For love of her who love forgot, I hold thy faded lips to mine. That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this I use my subtlest art, For this I fold thee in my song. |
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