Blind Love
A long wet day: and now, the twilight hour
Fine, but not golden, delicately gray . . .
We pace the garden path
Talking: and faint between the words we say
Fall troubled silences of pleasant sound . . .
I speak of love, and laugh!
Fine, but not golden, delicately gray . . .
We pace the garden path
Talking: and faint between the words we say
Fall troubled silences of pleasant sound . . .
I speak of love, and laugh!
The flowers stand drenched and bruised on either hand,
Only the leaves shine softly and seem glad . . .
And so the light grows less . . .
We turn: I take your hand . . . your lips look sad,
As though the rain had also hurt the flower
Of your mouth's loveliness . . .
Only the leaves shine softly and seem glad . . .
And so the light grows less . . .
We turn: I take your hand . . . your lips look sad,
As though the rain had also hurt the flower
Of your mouth's loveliness . . .
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