Elizabethan days . f sight,Towards the horizon of the new life,Leaving my soul back in the night. And, as the silken sail goes out,Behind the line of cloud and sky, I marvel that with all my fervent loveI lost you, dare I ask God why? Yet I must turn, and steps retraceInto the empty mansion of my soul. And set aright the bric-a-brac of days Of which you were the everlasting whole. I touch each hanging lamp or statuette,Or damask curtain, couch or chair, To brush away in dust f orgetf ulness,Only to feel your prescience everywhere. The rustle of your dress is in the hall,Your breath is in each
Elizabethan days . f sight,Towards the horizon of the new life,Leaving my soul back in the night. And, as the silken sail goes out,Behind the line of cloud and sky, I marvel that with all my fervent loveI lost you, dare I ask God why? Yet I must turn, and steps retraceInto the empty mansion of my soul. And set aright the bric-a-brac of days Of which you were the everlasting whole. I touch each hanging lamp or statuette,Or damask curtain, couch or chair, To brush away in dust f orgetf ulness,Only to feel your prescience everywhere. The rustle of your dress is in the hall,Your breath is in each flowering urn, Your finger tips are on the books I readI seem to see you every time I turn. And from the haunted mansion of my soul,Ill go to seek the open air divine, Only to hear the accents of your voiceLilted from out the honeysuckle vine. I wander, solitary, to the shore, Where your fair bark has passed fromsight,Throbbing, glowing, with the new life, Leaving my soul to stumble in the night. April 19, 1911. 21. ARBUTUS HE rose and violet when they fadeSpread odors sickening and impure,Tis only in the freshness of their bloomTheir scent and presence can endure,Most love affairs and friendships, too,In ending like the violet and the rose,Wither away but leave a reek behindThat they were bad at heart we must suppose,The pale arbutus when it fades,Like some frail woman in a ballrooms glareGrows limp and waxy; totters into musk,Shedding an odor that none can the arbutus nature fashioned youIn beauty, sweetness, and in the decayOf our brief romance, although sere and dead,It wafts a perfume that will last alway. May 13,1911. 22
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