THE GARDEN OF DOLORES
THE garden of Dolores! Here she walked
When fretted in the twilight’s pallid space
The trees were black and delicate as lace,
And palms were etchings, sharp and slender-stalked.
Now riots summer in these magic closes,
And life is rounded in the frailest spray....
Dolores, cold and buried yesterday,
Is it thy spirit here among the roses?
For restless murmurs through the garden seek;
To shadowy caress the flowers unclose;
A blossom in the dark magnolia glows—
Or leaning pallor of an oval cheek?
Upon the dusk is borne a strange long cry,
And one quick sob of wind the air has moved.
Ah, perfect garden that Dolores loved,
Her soul has called to thee ... a far goodbye.
INDIFFERENCE
THERE is a thread from you to me?
I know, I feel it drawing still,
A cobweb on my careless thought—
Old habit-likeness—what you will.
Because it once was strong as Fate
To bind a life to your desire,—
Because its knots about my heart
Could burn me like a witch’s wire,
You will not think it loosed. And I
(Ah, woman soul that prayed “Destroy!”)
Free from the fretting of my pain,
Have killed the fitful strength of joy.