POEMS OF JAMES RYDER RANDALL
Here, in the hot June midnight, grave and lone,
By the dull candle’s flare,
I weave unutterable words, and moan
Over a woman’s hair.
“Only a woman’s hair!” and still I sob
O’er memory with her pearls,
Crushing my brows with anguish till they throb—
Writhing my soul with curls.
No—no! I must not ponder things like these;
Be mine a breast of mail—
Though but a Nautilus of frenzied seas,
Swift—solitary—frail.
The world will know you not, my song, for you
Speak but to one, and say
Something I dare not, to an eve of blue
When I am far away.
I dare not—for I flit the waif of chance,
A riddle few have read,
Like the Grand Duke, I’ve had my day’s romance,
Like the Grand Duke, am dead.
[ 104 ]
