Poems (Van Vorst)/Three Years
THREE YEARS!
I heard the wind in the trees The stir of the leaves in the white birch tops Then sat alone with my past till dawn Crept over the edge of the leas And a dull red line was drawn In the East. There memory stops.
We do not follow our lives As the almanacs run. I lived that night Three years in the past and three to be . . . As foam that the sea-wind drives My thoughts sped on—three years and three, Marked by this lock of white.