Nor care, perchance, for sweet things left behind—
What time the apple boughs are wreathed and bent
With the fair dower of spring grown opulent!"
What time the apple boughs are wreathed and bent
With the fair dower of spring grown opulent!"
XXXIXIN DUSKY ALLEYS
In dusky alleys where the rose, the rose is overblown
Whose perfume makes the dewy air its own,
Where, large and white, from dazzling height o'er height
The stars lean down into the silent night,
Like some sad flower that blooms and drops unknown
I wait, unto sweet Love indifferent grown.
Whose perfume makes the dewy air its own,
Where, large and white, from dazzling height o'er height
The stars lean down into the silent night,
Like some sad flower that blooms and drops unknown
I wait, unto sweet Love indifferent grown.
If Love had met me when the rose, the rose, was young,
And stairs in morning skies divinely sung,
If Love had met me loitering by the strand,
Or lent across the slippery ford a hand,
Or cried, "Sweetheart, one precious moment stay!"
Should I have had the will to say him nay?
And stairs in morning skies divinely sung,
If Love had met me loitering by the strand,
Or lent across the slippery ford a hand,
Or cried, "Sweetheart, one precious moment stay!"
Should I have had the will to say him nay?
But since the rose, the rose, drops tarnished, overblown,
And every leaf the autumn winds dethrone,
Since Love forgets the way unto my door,
I watch and wait his coming nevermore,—
No beggar lives so hunger-hurt, alone,
As I to whom Love once denied my own.
And every leaf the autumn winds dethrone,
Since Love forgets the way unto my door,
I watch and wait his coming nevermore,—
No beggar lives so hunger-hurt, alone,
As I to whom Love once denied my own.
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