OH canst thou not hear in my heart all its whispering fears
Whose wind-like voices
Flutter the leaves of my hope and bow them with tears
While the body rejoices.
Till all the pomp and beauty of day, the Cardinal Sun
Trailing his scarlet vesture
Leaves after light the pale hills sullen and dun,
Turns with a gesture
Colour and glory to smoke that is deathly and grey.
I follow the shadows of sorrow
That press so close to the dancing heels of the day
And darken the morrow.
The world turns pale and cold, for I seem to see
Beyond its golden visor
The leering skull that derides at our lives and me
Being older than life and wiser. . . .
I hear the cry of the world that writhes to the lash of the whip
Beyond the sound of the treetops singing
To the wind's persuasive violins and bells of dews that drip,
Or rush of feathers winging. . . .
Dost thou fear death as I? Ah no, but thy lips are against my cheek
Murmuring tenderly
The perfumed lies stolen from spring that wistfully through the bleak
Windows of frost so slenderly
Steals her little ghost's flute. Thou tellest of things that might be
If life were as kind as a lover,
If we were beloved of the world and the world of we.
Thy white words hover
Dove-like in rose leaf evenings over the nest
Silvering heaven
With rustle of lovers that nestle together for rest.
If I could have given
Whose wind-like voices
Flutter the leaves of my hope and bow them with tears
While the body rejoices.
Till all the pomp and beauty of day, the Cardinal Sun
Trailing his scarlet vesture
Leaves after light the pale hills sullen and dun,
Turns with a gesture
Colour and glory to smoke that is deathly and grey.
I follow the shadows of sorrow
That press so close to the dancing heels of the day
And darken the morrow.
The world turns pale and cold, for I seem to see
Beyond its golden visor
The leering skull that derides at our lives and me
Being older than life and wiser. . . .
I hear the cry of the world that writhes to the lash of the whip
Beyond the sound of the treetops singing
To the wind's persuasive violins and bells of dews that drip,
Or rush of feathers winging. . . .
Dost thou fear death as I? Ah no, but thy lips are against my cheek
Murmuring tenderly
The perfumed lies stolen from spring that wistfully through the bleak
Windows of frost so slenderly
Steals her little ghost's flute. Thou tellest of things that might be
If life were as kind as a lover,
If we were beloved of the world and the world of we.
Thy white words hover
Dove-like in rose leaf evenings over the nest
Silvering heaven
With rustle of lovers that nestle together for rest.
If I could have given
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