POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
There was a youth who bade me goodby
Where the hill rises to meet the sky.
I think my heart broke but I have forgot
All but the scent of the white melilot.
VIII
Though you should whisper
Of what made her weep,
She would not hear you—
She is asleep.
Though you should taunt her
With ancient heart-break,
She would not listen—
She is awake.
Passion would find her
Too cold for dishonor.
Candles beside her,
Roses upon her!
IX
Now have I conquered that which made me sad—
The bitterness and anguish and regret.
Yea, I have conquered it And yet—and yet—
The moaning of the doves will drive me mad.
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