One time the hands of wind upon my hair
Could heal me like a mother’s touch and kiss.
When I could give my airy griefs to air
I never knew so sharp a thorn as this.
The joy of flower and wind and sighing bough—
It comes not back again for tears and rue.
A year agone I had not sought as now,
And found the sky a vault of empty blue.
II
HE loves no more. Upon the failing streams
The summer burns—so burns another flame:
I see his eyes alight with alien dreams ...
That long-forgotten country whence he came.
Calls to him past my words; beyond my eyes
Lost waters shine, remembered sunsets die.
Ay, in my kiss another mouth replies,
And speaks of kisses past, of lips put by.
Now this my heart divines, for words of love
He gives me still (O woeful heart and bruised
To still complain!).... But surely, when I move
His eyes will never follow as they used.
III
THE soul that made love exquisite is gone,
It is not that the word, the kiss, is changed.
I cannot say, “Here was his thought withdrawn;
So once was love, so now is love estranged.”