Here on the cliff beneath the oleanders,
In the long limpid twilight of the spring,
Looking toward Khios where the amber sky
Was pierced by the faint arrow of a star.
How should they know the wind of a new beauty
Sweeping my soul had winnowed it with song?
I have been glad tho’ love should come or go,
Happy as trees that find a wind to sway them,
Happy again when it has left them rest.
Others shall say: “Grave Dica wrought her death.”