Let fools say:
"Spring
Will come again!"
Disillusion
I touch joy and it crumbles under my fingers—
The dust from it rises and fills the world,
It blinds my eyes—I cannot see the sun.
A choking fog of dust shuts me apart.
I remember the sparkling wind on a bright autumn morning,
I let down my hair and danced in the golden gale,
Then chased the wind as the wind chased fallen leaves—
Wind cannot be caught and tamed like a bird.
I touch joy and it crumbles to dust in my fingers.
November Afternoon
Upon our heads
The oak leaves fall
Like silent benedictions
Closing Autumn's gorgeous ritual,
And we, upborne by worship,
Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills.
Beloved
How can I know
What gods are yours,
How can I guess the visions of your spirit,
Or hear
The silent prayers your heart has said?
Only by this I feel
Your gods akin to mine,
That when our lips have met
On this last golden Autumn afternoon
They have confessed in silence
Our kisses were less precious than our dreams.
Today, our passion drowned in beauty,
We turn away our faces toward the hills
Where purple haze, old incense,
Spreads its veil.