And oh, to think that he might be
So proudly set, above them set,
If he might but awaken yet
The soul of me.
Will no man seek and seeking find
The soul of me, the soul of me?
Nay, even as they are, so is he,
And all are blind.
On Christmas morning we were wed,
Ah me the morn, the luckless morn;
Now poppies burn along the corn,
Would I were dead.
FORSAKEN
The word is said, and I no more shall know
Aught of the changing story of her days,
Nor any treasure that her lips bestow.
And I, who loving her was wont to praise
All things in love, now reft of music go
With silent step down unfrequented ways.
My soul is like a lonely market-place,
Where late were laughing folk and shining steeds
And many things of comeliness and grace;
And now between the stones are twisting weeds,
No sound there is, nor any friendly face,
Save for a bedesman telling o’er his beads.