"The Lord appeared in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush and behold, the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed." - EXODUS III. 2.
There shall be a song for both of us that day Though fools say you have long outlived your songs, And when, perhaps, because your hair is grey, You go unsung, to whom all praise belongs,...
Round them a fierce, wide, crazy noon Heaves with crushed lips and glowing sides Against the huge and drowsy sun. Beneath them turn the glittering tides Where dizzy waters reel with gold,...
Did he forget? ... I do not remember, All I had of him once I still have to-day; He was lovely to me as the word "amber," As the taste of honey and as the smell of hay.
Are you my songs, importunate of praise? Be still, remember for your comforting That sweeter birds have had less leave to sing Before men piped them from their lonely ways. ...
Dawn has flashed up the startled skies, Night has gone out beneath the hill Many sweet times; before our eyes Dawn makes and unmakes about us still The magic that we call the rose....
"I thought you loved me." "No, it was only fun." "When we stood there, closer than all?" "Well, the harvest moon "Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head."...
Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed How sweet your slow, divine stupidity, Your look of earth, your sense of drowsy rest, So rich, so strange, so all unlike my sea....
There are those who love, to whom Love brings Great gladness: such thing have not I. Love looks and has no mercy, brings Long doom to others. Such was I....
Unaware of its terror, And but half aware Of the world's beauty near her - Of sunlight on the stones, And trembling birds in the square, Lightly went Madala - A rose blown suddenly...
I am growing old: I have kept youth too long, But I dare not let them know it now. I have done the heart of youth a grievous wrong, Danced it to dust and drugged it with the rose,...
I will not have roses in my room again, Nor listen to sonnets of Michael Angelo To-night nor any night, nor fret my brain With all the trouble of things that I should know....
I am not true, but you would pardon this If you could see the tortured spirit take Its place beside you in the dark, and break Your daily food of love and kindliness....
"What did she leave?" ... Only these hungry miser-words, poor heart! Not "Did she love?" "Did she suffer?" "Was she sad From this green, bright and tossing world to part?"...
The evening found us whom the day had fled, Once more in bitter anger, you and I, Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing Our anger would not decently let die....