SPRING DEATH.
But death has stripped me bare of all desire:
An outcast from earth's generous festival,
I go to warm me by the altar fire,
Whereat we worshipped. Happy little shrine—
Soft garlands on the wall,
The music and the laughter and the wine,
Talk, like a fountain pulsing to the blue,
To fall in rainbow droplets on the grass,
Warm human joys-they shall my heart renew,
They cannot pass.
An outcast from earth's generous festival,
I go to warm me by the altar fire,
Whereat we worshipped. Happy little shrine—
Soft garlands on the wall,
The music and the laughter and the wine,
Talk, like a fountain pulsing to the blue,
To fall in rainbow droplets on the grass,
Warm human joys-they shall my heart renew,
They cannot pass.
What shadow haunts that dear familiar room
And, like a night-bird poised on silent wing,
Hovers upon the violet-scented gloom?
Our instruments of joy lie untouched there
And, scarcely whispering,
We say not what we would but all we dare,
Quelling the tumult of forbidden tears;
No more to wander with the roving throng,
Bowed by resentment for remembered years—
Our years of song.
And, like a night-bird poised on silent wing,
Hovers upon the violet-scented gloom?
Our instruments of joy lie untouched there
And, scarcely whispering,
We say not what we would but all we dare,
Quelling the tumult of forbidden tears;
No more to wander with the roving throng,
Bowed by resentment for remembered years—
Our years of song.
Together through the blue transparent nights,
Together through the hum of London streets,
Our path was like a garden gay with lights,
Tall lilies among tulips gold and red;
Together through the hum of London streets,
Our path was like a garden gay with lights,
Tall lilies among tulips gold and red;
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