  PASSION? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes— One hand among the deep curls of her brow, I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. So have I seen a clear October pool, Cold, liquid topaz set within the sear Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music-sweet, Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer; Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeat Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair! So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant head Sung to and sung to by a longing bird, And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, No blossom wilted, for it had not heard. |
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