What have I done to hurt you? You have given
What I have given, and both of us have taken
Bravely and beautifully without regret.
When have I sinned against you? or forsaken
Our secret vow? Think you that I forget
One syllable of all your loveliness?
What is this crime that shall not be forgiven?
Spring passes, the pale buds upon the pond
Shrink under water from my lonely oars,
The fern is squandering its final frond,
And gypsy smoke drifts grey from distant shores.
O soon enough the end of love and song,
And soon enough the ultimate farewell;
Blazon our lives with one last miracle,—
We have not long.
Genoa, 1918
V
By these shall you remember
The syllables of me;
The grass in cushioned clumps around
The root of cedar tree.
The blue and green design
Of sky and budding leaves,
The joyous song that in the sun
A golden ladder weaves.
When soil is wet and warm
And smells of the new rain,
When frogs accost the evening
With their recurrent strain,
Then damn me if you dare.
I know how you will call,
But this time I will laugh and run,
Nor look at you at all.
Or, if you will, go walking
With immortality,
But never shall you once forget
The syllables of me.