Dream-Flowers
Every time my love
Hears the ridicule of the world,
He lays down his pen
And broods.
I am never more forlorn
Than when I watch the wavering
Of the heart of the man I love—
Though my eyes see it not.
When I take up my pen to write to him,
A woman out of her mind
Shrieks and wails
In the world upon the paper.
Ink has stained my weary fingers.
I shall now stop writing
My resentful thoughts
And go to sleep.
37 
