Yet if I came to you who heed no more My name upon the wind? Love's ghost, lean near, I have a word that only you may hear. If you should come to me with dear desire, My soul's dry staff should tremble to its core And flame against your touch in buds of fire.
What shall I give to her who will not care If I give soul or roses, will not know How that, for sweets she'll spend, light smiles she'll sow, I will reap bitter tears? If she could wear Those tears as stars to sparkle in her hair! What shall I give? I have not fall'n so low I may not lay one gift before I go Upon the altar of my heart's despair.
She will not know; yet, in my love a king, I must be worthy of my crown and throne, And so can sacrifice no little thing. My life, my soul are worthless since her scorn. Slay we then love on love's red altar-stone-- Beggared of all, I face the world forlorn.
Not you, nor all the gauds that Fate bestows, Can make me swerve so little from my dream. Across my veil of mystery you seem Perhaps a little dearer than the rose, Perhaps more fair than the long light that flows Between the lids of twilight. But the gleam Of iris on the breast of wisdom's stream Is of a radiance that no rival knows.
My heart is not my heart, or it might chance To sorrow for the sorrow in your tears; My soul is locked against all circumstance Of life or love or death or heaven or hell; I have no place for laughter in my years, No room where little, little love might dwell.
The pattern of the earth, so wonderful, Is, more than myrtle, very dear to me. Across the avenue of limes I see A little mist by ghosts made magical, Tossing across the hills, more beautiful Than the deep eyes of amber women, free Of shame and of disdain, on some far sea Swept by trade-winds the sun makes lyrical.
There is no air the mind may not recall, Blown from the violet-beds of Greece; and all The moons who drop their shattered petals here Live from the days which hid Semiramis. Breezes upon my lips are subtly dear, Because they bear the burden of her kiss.
The beggar thoughts pass down the lanes of day, And on the thorns that are the hours I find Their tatters and their rags. Infirm and blind, They faded in the void, and all the way Mouthed senseless jeers at me. I dared not pray For wisdom from these fools who throng the mind And leave no gifts but bitterness behind. Chin upon hand, I watched, nor bade them stay.