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A pale flame, after your fierce sunsets!
Yet the Spring came at its call,
Bringing windflowers and pansies and violets,
And the rosemary that has no regrets
And lasts the longest of all.

Pray, child, to the gods that when you've found
What the heats of passion prove.
You sob not aloud with a piteous sound.
Over the plot of trampled ground,
Wherein you murdered love.

THE RIVER

THE pallid river of regret.
Flows thro' that empty land;
The land you call my heart, where yet
    The poplar-trees of memory, wet
With ancient sorrow, stand.
    And mournfully, mournfully evermore
Thro' those trees the wind goes wailing.
    And like wreckage strewn on a lonely shore,
Where no man dwells and nevermore
    Shall any ship come sailing.
The dead leaves lie where they have fallen.
    Lie on the land where they have fallen,
The land where the roots of sorrow are set.
The land of the river of regret.