Page:Poems Piatt.djvu/187

Let empty flower-dust at my feet
 Remind me of the buds you wear;
Let the bird's quiet show how sweet
 The far-off singing made the air;
 And let your dew through frost look fair.

In mourning you I shall rejoice.
 Go: for the bitter word may be
A music—in the vanished voice;
 And on the dead face I may see
 How bright its frown has been to me.

Then in the haunted grass I'll sit,
 Half tearful in your withered place,
And watch your lovely shadow flit
 Across To-morrow's sunny face,
 And vex her with your perfect grace.

So, real thing of bloom and breath,
 I weary of you while you stay.
Put on the dim, still charm of death,
 Fade to a phantom, float away,
 And let me call you Yesterday!