
Disenchantment
THIS is the circle fairies drewTo hold your love and mine,And here it was the tall tree grewWith fruit we bruised for wine.
Serene we stand where once we stoodScarce breathing, tense, alert;Now nothing stirs for ill or good,For healing or for hurt.
Your hands are cold, and I am cold;We speak, but drop no pearls;No careless wind disturbs the goldStill cradled in your curls.
Call—yet no agile echo leapsA mountain for our grief;No slant-eyed fawn for terror creepsAlong a trembling leaf.
If once I had a fairy club,You had a wonder stone,And did I wave or you but rub,The world was all our own.
This is the circle; see, I waveMy wand, you rub your stone;But nothing's here except a graveOn which cold winds have blown.
