| There is grey in your hair. |
| Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath |
| When you are passing; |
| But
maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing |
| Because it was your prayer |
|
|
|
|
| Recovered him upon the bed of
death. |
| For your sole sake—that all heart’s ache have known, |
| And given to others all heart’s ache, |
| From
meagre girlhood’s putting on |
| Burdensome beauty—for your sole sake |
| Heaven has put away the stroke
of her doom, |
| So great her portion in that peace you make |
| By merely walking in a room. |
|
|
|
|
| Your beauty
can but leave among us |
| Vague memories, nothing but memories. |
| A young man when the old men are
done talking |
| Will say to an old man, ‘Tell me of that lady |
| The poet stubborn with his passion sang us |
| When age might well have chilled his blood.’ |
|
|
|
|
| Vague memories, nothing but memories, |
| But in the grave
all, all, shall be renewed. |
| The certainty that I shall see that lady |
| Leaning or standing or walking |
| In the
first loveliness of womanhood, |
| And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, |
| Has set me muttering like a
fool. |
|
|
|
|
| You are more beautiful than any one, |
| And yet your body had a flaw: |
| Your small hands were not
beautiful, |
| And I am afraid that you will run |
| And paddle to the wrist |
| In that mysterious, always brimming
lake |
| Where those that have obeyed the holy law |
| Paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged |
| The hands
that I have kissed, |
| For old sakes’ sake. |
|
|
|
|
| The last stroke of midnight dies. |
| All day in the one chair |
| From
dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged |
| In rambling talk with an image of air: |
| Vague memories,
nothing but memories. |
