Poems of Passion

Whatever your answer, I understand That there is no pathway by which we can go Back to the dead past's wonderland; And the gems he purchased from me, from you, There is no rebuying from Time, the Jew.

Life is too short for any vain regretting; Let dead delight bury its dead, I say, And let us go upon our way forgetting The joys and sorrows of each yesterday Between the swift sun's rising and its setting We have no time for useless tears or fretting: Life is too short.

You will forget me; will thank me for saying The words which you think are so pointed with pain. Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing Will change for you soon to a livelier strain. I shall pass from your life—I shall pass out forever, And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past. Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never, And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

You will forget me. The years are so tender, They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep; This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep; The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over Will banish the last rosy colors away, And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.

I am tired to-night, and I miss you, And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go— You, who have been gone for years. And I seem to be newly lonely— I, who am so much alone; And the strings of my heart are well in tune, But they have not the same old tone.

I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune.

You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling, Alone with your heart, as I sit to-day, And hear that voice from your dead Past calling Out of the graves that you hid away.

Time flies. He steals our pulsing youth; He robs us of our care-free days; He takes away our trust and truth: And yet love stays. O Time! take love! When love is vain, When all its best joys die— When only its regrets remain— Let love, too, fly.

You think I am speaking strangely? You cannot understand? Well, let me look down into your eyes, And let me take your hand. I am running away from danger; I am flying before I fall; I am going because with heart and soul I love you—that is all. There, now you are white with anger; I knew it would be so. You should not question a man too close When he tells you he must go.

Do you sometimes sigh for the tattered shreds Of the old delight that we cast away, And find no worth in the silken threads Of newer fabrics we wear to-day? Have you thought the bitter of that last kiss Better than sweets of a later bliss?