And bank my flame to a low hearth fire, believing
You’ll come for warmth and life to its tempered glow?
Shall I mould my hope anew, to one of service,
And tell my uneasy soul “Behold, this is good.”
And meet you (if we do meet), even at Heaven’s threshold,
With ewer and basin, with clothing and with food?
LAKE SONG
The lapping of lake water
Is like the weeping of women,
The weeping of ancient women