Poems (Storrie)/Retribution
For works with similar titles, see Retribution.
Retribution.
I sought—I—in my gown of silk For a blossom that I might wear, Dew-wet lilies as white as milk, Should I twine them in my hair? But the pallor that lay on their ivory tips Was the hue that flashed to thy stern shut lips When I wrenched our hands apart, And I turned away, with a sob in my throat, For out from the petals there seemed to float The wraith of thy wounded heart.
Then I turned, and my smile came back again As I plucked me a yellow rose, No ghostly phantom of buried pain Could its sun-kissed leaves enclose, But it stabbed me deep, for its yellow gloss Was the same rich hue as the golden dross With which my soul was bought, And I crushed it under a passionate heel As a loathly thing that should know and feel The evil it had wrought.
Then I ran—I—in the dewy night And I sought some sweet, wild thing—Some wayside blossom, frail and bright, That could not hold a sting. And mine eyes were dim, for my tears fell fast, But I gathered a fair field-flower at last, And my heart within was hot As I trembling drew to the lighted room, A ghost looked out from the turquoise bloom— I had plucked a forget-me-not!