Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/14

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Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds

Heaven, you say, will be a field in April

In the long silence of the sea

When you, that at this moment are to me

What's this of death, from you who never will die

I know I am but summer to your heart

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!

Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find

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