XII
Unto that little garden sometimes, Love,
I hasten yet to—to—yes, to forget—
Tell all its quaintnesses again and let
Myself learn peace of her who knew not love.
Yes, yes, unto that garden sometimes, Love,
I hasten yet to—to—yes, to forget—
To feel its dear, deep calm again and let
Hover above my heart Youth’s white, white dove.
No, no!—you need not worry lest I stay,
Forget the lore that I of grief have learned,
The lore sin red upon my soul has burned—
Tell me why should you worry lest I stay?
Surely you’ve heard when of blood tigers taste,
Not seas can keep them from it—mountain—waste!