For destiny no more can bow my soul
As rain bows down the watch-fires on the hills.
Yea, if my soul escape, it shall aspire
Toward the white heaven as flame that has its will.
I go not bitterly, not dumb with grief,
Not broken by the ache of love—I go
As one grown tired lies down and hopes to sleep.
Yet they shall say: “It was for Cercolas—
She died because she could not bear her love.”
They shall remember how we used to walk