I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply; 
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity—
A mild and most bewildered little shade. 
I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid, 
But softly come where I had longed to be 
In April twilight’s unsung melody, 
And I, not you, shall be the one afraid. 

Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead 
I shall come back to you, who hurt me most. 
You may not feel my hand upon your head, 
I’ll be so new and inexpert a ghost. 
Perhaps you will not know that I am near,—
And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear. 

Unknown to you, I walk the cheerless shore. 

   The cutting blast, the hurl of biting brine, 

May freeze, and still, and bind the waves at war, 

   Ere you will ever know, O! Heart of mine, 

That I have sought, reflected in the blue 

    Of these sea depths, some shadow of your eyes; 

Have hoped the laughing waves would sing of you, 

   But this is all my starving sight descries—

I.

Far out at sea a sail 

    Bends to the freshening breeze, 

Yields to the rising gale, 

    That sweeps the seas; 

II. 

Yields, as a bird wind-tossed, 

    To saltish waves that fling 

Their spray, whose rime and frost

    Like crystals cling

III. 

To canvas, mast and spar, 

   Till, gleaming like a gem, 

She sinks beyond the far

   Horizon’s hem. 

IV. 

Lost to my longing sight, 

    And nothing left to me

Save an oncoming night,—

    An empty sea.

You said bad men waited inside
your mouth, which meant a fire
 
was catching. We drove toward
a cloud of smoke that rose above
 
the city. In the mirror, I saw
the wide belt strapped across
 
your chest, and on the radio,
men stormed the gates
 
in another country. I do
love you, you said, looking out.
 
The window held the sun
flatly. I held my breath. The brush
 
had not been cleared in weeks,
and the mountain prepared to burn.

There was, before me,
Mile upon mile
Of snow, ice, burning sand.
And yet I could look beyond all this,
To a place of infinite beauty;
And I could see the loveliness of her
Who walked in the shade of the trees.
When I gazed,
All was lost
But this place of beauty and her.
When I gazed,
And in my gazing, desired,
Then came again
Mile upon mile,
Of snow, ice, burning sand.

The sea called—
you faced the estuary,
you were drowned as the tide passed.—
I am glad of this—
at least you have escaped.

The heavy sea-mist stifles me.
I choke with each breath—
a curious peril, this—
the gods have invented
curious torture for us.

One of us, pierced in the flank,
dragged himself across the marsh,
he tore at the bay-roots,
lost hold on the crumbling bank—

Another crawled—too late—
for shelter under the cliffs.

I am glad the tide swept you out,
O beloved,
you of all this ghastly host
alone untouched,
your white flesh covered with salt
as with myrrh and burnt iris.

We were hemmed in this place,
so few of us, so few of us to fight
their sure lances,
the straight thrust—effortless
with slight life of muscle and shoulder.

So straight—only we were left,
the four of us—somehow shut off.

And the marsh dragged one back,
and another perished under the cliff,
and the tide swept you out.

Your feet cut steel on the paths,
I followed for the strength
of life and grasp.
I have seen beautiful feet
but never beauty welded with strength.
I marvelled at your height.

You stood almost level
with the lance-bearers
and so slight.

And I wondered as you clasped
your shoulder-strap
at the strength of your wrist
and the turn of your young fingers,
and the lift of your shorn locks,
and the bronze
of your sun-burnt neck.

All of this,
and the curious knee-cap,
fitted above the wrought greaves,
and the sharp muscles of your back
which the tunic could not cover—
the outline
no garment could deface.

I wonder if you knew how I watched,
how I crowded before the spearsmen—
but the gods wanted you,
the gods wanted you back.

I would tell her
Except she wouldn't care
I'd write him
Except he'd never write me back
There is a rat they left hanging
I'd save it
Except it's dead
What is the force that swirls me
I asked of the wind
There was no reply
It was beyond me
And I was floating in it
Circles and circles
I've seen them throughout my life
I tried to answer them
They bled their mouths on me
Call me call me I begged of the moon
It did not listen
It had left me alone
So many years ago
And as the world collapsed
I mouthed the empty rhetoric of my time period
Call me call me
I begged of the wind

A month or twain to live on honeycomb 
Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, 
Cold sweet recurrence of acceptance rhyme,
And that strong purple under juice and foam 
Where the wine’s heart has burst;
Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. 

Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray 
Even to change the bitterness of it, 
The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, 
To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay 
All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise 
Over my face and eyes. 

And yet who knows what end the scythed wheat 
Makes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red? 
These were not sown, these are not harvested,
They grow a month and are cast under feet 
And none has care thereof, 
As none has care of a divided love. 

I know each shadow of your lips by rote, 
Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows;
The fashion of fair temples tremulous 
With tender blood, and colour of your throat;
I know not how love is gone out of this, 
Seeing that all was his. 

Love’s likeness there endures upon all these:
But out of these one shall not gather love. 
Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough 
To make love whole and fill his lips with ease,
As some bee-builded cell 
Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. 

I know not how this last month leaves your hair 
Less full of purple colour and hid spice, 
And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes
Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care;
And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet 
Worth patience to regret.