SHE loves me…she loves me not.
I tear my hands, scatter the broken fingers…loves me not
As we scatter the random riddling heads of daisies
Tumbling through summer.
Though I adopt the smooth chin and greying hair,
The silver, tinkling out the change of years,
I hope, I know that age will never bring
The final shame of prudent commonsense.
It’s after one and you must be asleep.
The milky way is like a silver river.
I’m in no hurry. There’s no need
To wake you or disturb you with telegrams or thunder.
It’s what they call the end of the affair.
Love’s gondola has struck the rocks of fact.
We’re quits—no point in totting up
Our score of troubles, miseries, and wrongs.
See how much peace the world can give.
The sky is wrapped in stars, the gift of night.
At such a time you rise, and find you speak
To all the years, the future, and the world.
It’s after one and you must be asleep.
Or maybe you can feel the night as well.
I’m in no hurry. There’s no need
To wake you or disturb you with telegrams or thunder.
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toniiu said:
this has pierced my heart most exquisitely.
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