I, who have wasted all the sacred, deep
Emotions of my soul in spendthrift fashion,
Until no sorrow now can make me weep—
No joy stir me with passion.
I, who have scattered here and there the gold
Of my heart’s store, until I spent the whole;
Yet unto each so little gave to hold,
That I enriched no soul.
I, who have sold the birthright of sweet tears,
And no more feel a thrill in pulse or brain,
Would gladly have exchanged my tasteless years
For one salt hour of pain.
Weep on, ye mourners. Glory in the cross
Of some great grief. Thank God you do not know
The greater grief that comes but with the loss
Of power to suffer woe.
RONDEAU
As you forgot I may forget,
When summer dews cease to be wet.
When whippoorwills disdain the night,
When sun and moon are no more bright,
And all the stars at midnight set.
When jay birds sing, and thrushes fret,
When snowfalls come in flakes of jet,
When hearts that shelter love are light,
I may forget.
When mortal life no cares beset,
When April brings no violet,
When wrong no longer wars with right,
When all hope’s ships shall heave in sight,
And memory holds no least regret,
I may forget.
TRIFLES
Only a spar from a broken ship
Washed in by a careless wave;
But it brought back the smile of a vanished lip,
And his past peered out of the grave.