A WOMAN'S BIRTHDAY[In August.]
It is the Summer's great last heat,
It is the Fall's first chill: they meet.
Dust in the grass, dust in the air,
Dust in the grave—and everywhere!
Ah, late rose, eaten to the heart:
Ah, bird, whose southward yearnings start:
The one may fall, the other fly.
Why may not I? Why may not I?
It is the Fall's first chill: they meet.
Dust in the grass, dust in the air,
Dust in the grave—and everywhere!
Ah, late rose, eaten to the heart:
Ah, bird, whose southward yearnings start:
The one may fall, the other fly.
Why may not I? Why may not I?
Oh, Life! that gave me for my dower
The hushing song, the worm-gnawed flower,
Let drop the rose from your shrunk breast
And blow the bird to some warm nest;
Flush out your dying colours fast:
The last dead leaf—will be the last.
No? Must I wear your piteous smile
A little while, a little while?
The hushing song, the worm-gnawed flower,
Let drop the rose from your shrunk breast
And blow the bird to some warm nest;
Flush out your dying colours fast:
The last dead leaf—will be the last.
No? Must I wear your piteous smile
A little while, a little while?
