OUT OF A DARK NIGHT
| Death is more tranquil than the life of love, More calm, more sure, and more unanguished. O the path among the trees is far more tranquil to the dead Than to these anxious hearts, uptroubled from their beds, Who pace in pallid darkness on the leaves, For no good reason—for no reason But because their limbs will not lie still upon the sheet. Their limbs will not lie still. O how I pity them. Sad hearts—their marrow is a-quiver, And they can not lie them down in tranquil sadness like the dead. |
A MORNING
| Again this morning the bold autumn, Spreading through the woods her sacred fire, Brings the rich color of your presence Warmly luminous to my desire— Brings to my heart the dear wild worship, High and wayward as the windy air, And to my pulse the hot sweet passion Burning crimson like a poison there. |