III
Let there be dance and laughter, sound of song,
Soft glances interchange and merriment,
That from Joy’s too full cup to others sent
Drops overflowing to me may belong.
Let me be ’mid the laughter-loving throng,
To my dead heart their life-passion be lent,
Who now am but a beggar worn and bent,
Crouched down by others’ fires when winds are strong.
That it could not have lasted, well I know—
Too few—alas!—youth’s years now left to me;
Love’s spared itself a hideous tragedy,
Than which none bitterer life has to show—
The tragedy of them that Time has sold,
The vision of a woman growing old!