I mourn the lips of yesterday,
Lips whose kisses are yet unborn,
And the old desires outworn,
Under sorrows hid away.
Always rain on the far sky-line;
Always snow on the beaches gleams,
While by the bolted gate of dreams
Crouching wolves in the grasses whine.
Into my listless soul I gaze:
With clouded eyes I search the past,
At all the long-spilt blood aghast
Of lambs that died in wintry ways.
Only the moon its mournful fires
Enkindles, and a desolate light
Falls where the autumn frosts are white
Over my famishing desires.