LXI
How sad, how sad the moon is, Dear, to-night—
Pale woman in her grave-clothes seeking there
Along the azure meadows of the air,
The way that leadeth back to life and light.
She trembles and her face with fear is white
Astray amid that cold strange splendor there;
Gold star-flowers stare with eyes that do not care
While she gropes broken-hearted down the night.
Pull low that purple lilac! Yes!—this way.
When—list!—you kiss me thus, let her not see,
She’s so athirst for love she’d envy me,
Poor, poor lost lonely one, wound her not, pray!
Why, Dear, the glad great gods themselves I think
For kisses such as these would cross death’s brink!