The Golden Darkness/All the Things I Yearned to Say

ALL THE THINGS I YEARNED TO SAY.

All the things I yearned to say,
All the things I never said,—
Oh, are they unrecorded as
The movements of the waves?
Oh, will they vanish—vanish as
The trails of ships at sea?

I know not, but they sometimes come
Like little ghosts of things unborn,
And flutter, furtive, through my dreams,
And haunt the dusk with wistfulness,
And sometimes through the things I say
They pulse and pulse, as silent as
The ocean’s heartbeats coursing through
The veins of singing leaves.