POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Went from the temple with a weary throng
Of questions in my soul, and told my grief
To the heart of the yellow flower with the scent
Of citrus clinging to its pointed leaf.
IV
I shall not sing again of love—
I weary of the old unrest.
(But like a hangman, love has burned
His crimson emblem on my breast;
But, like a hangman, love has set
A crimson scar my heart above.)
Yea, I am wearied with old pain—
I shall not sing again of love.
V
I took my sorrow into the woods,
Saying, "Nature will bend to me
And hold me close; and her quiet moods
Shall he as physician and friend to me."
Looking to hear her rivers sigh
Because my heart was worn with grief,
To hark the thunders break her sky,
To catch the moan of her aspen leaf,
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