We did not dream, my Heart, and yet
With what a pang we woke at last!
We were not happy in the past
It is so bitter to forget.
We did not hope, my Soul, for Heaven;
Yet now the hour of death is nigh,
How hard, how strange it is to die
Like leaves along the tempest driven.
_An Oasis._
You wandered in the desert waste, athirst;
My soul I gave you as a well to drink;
A little while you lingered at the brink,
And then you went, nor either blessed nor cursed.
The image of your face, which sank that day
Into the magic waters of the well,
Still haunts their clearness, still remains to tell
Of one who looked and drank and could not stay.
The sun shines down, the moon slants over it,
The stars look in and are reflected not;
Only your face, unchanged and unforgot,
Shines through the deeps, till all the waves are lit.
My soul I gave you as a well to drink,
And in its depth your face is clearer far
Than any shine of sun or moon or star—
Since then you pause by many a greener brink.
[Illustration]
_Tuberoses._
[Illustration]