Poems (Bibesco)/I
I
Each ash is raised by some dead fire— A monumentTo our lost fevers of desire, That now lie spent,In the cold discipline of death, Cooling their breath.
But you, my love, with your light tread Of Ecstasy,Will dance a measure to the dead, Who only seeThe slow encroaching mists of grey,That make a spirit's holiday.
Fire, the precursor of the ash, The wastrel flame,Fashioned the darkness with a flash Until there cameDay's reasoning economy To set light free.
But you, my love, will burn the night With flickering eye,Holding all darkness and all light In jeopardy,Who know that heart and blood and boneAnd dusk and fire and ash are one,