Or I might work in hell
His miracle.
Changing from joy to tears,
To quiet all the years,
With icy rod,
Like God.
I might immortal be
Even as He.
Saying, as heaven saith,
What Victory, Oh death,
What sting can save,
Oh grave?
As I, alone and dumb,
What doth not come
Ever, He waits to see
And surely, waiting, he
Must pray ah pray! to die
Even as I.
THE SONG OF THE GAMBUCINOS.
THE little houses in the street
And the warm blinds at night,
Outside the copper on his beat
And the moon so white, so white.
They know what we shall never know,
See what we cannot see,
The steady lamplit ways that go
To the quiet cemetery.
They have not any fear at all
Of life and of its end.
They hear church bells, their children call,
Their wife and death their friend.
But for us the moon is white, so white
It drowns us and it stings,
And we must fly throughout the night
Because of dangerous things.
FEBRUARY 14.
LET’S be done with talking,
Words are half a snare,
That fools use for stalking
What was never there.