Of days and nights under the living vine,
Memory singing from a tree has given
The plan of my buried heaven,
That I may dig therein as in a mine.

Did I call you, little Vigilant One, under the waning sun? 
Did you come barefooted through the dew,
Through the fine dew-drenched grass when the colours faded
Out of the sky? 
Who is that shadow holding over you a veil of tempest woven,
Shaded with streaks of cloud and lightning on the edges? 
Lean nearer, I fear him, and the sigh
Of the rising wind worries the sedges,
And the cry
Of a white, long-legged bird from the marsh
Cuts through the twilight with a threat of night. 
The receding voice is harsh
And echoes in my spirit. 
Hark, do you hear it wailing against the hollow rocks of the hill,
As it takes its lonely outgoing towards the sea? 
Lean nearer still. 
Your silence is an ecstasy of speech,
You are the only white
Unconquered by the overwhelming frown. 
Who stands behind you so impassively? 
Bid him begone, or let me reach
And tear away his veil.  But he is gone. 
Who was he? surely no comrade of the dawn,
No lover from an earthly town,
Was he then Love? or Death? . . . but he is gone.

Come, I will take your hand,—­this little glade
Of stunted trees,—­do you remember that? 
You dropped the Persian vase here on this stone,
And the white grape was spilled;
And then you cried, half angry, half afraid;
Yonder we sat
And carefully took the pieces one by one,
And tried to make them fit. 
I brought another vessel filled
With a deeper wine, and there on that dark bank,
When the first star stepped from immensity,
We lay and drank.... 
Do you remember it?

White flame you burned against the star grey grass. 
Drink deep and pass
The insufficient cup to me.

Paris, 1919

IV

You seek to hurt me, foolish child, and why? 
How cunningly you try
The keen edge of your words against me, yea,
The death you would not dare inflict on me,
Yet would you welcome if it tore the day
In which I pleasure from my sight. 
You would be happy if that sombre night
Ravished me into darkness where there are
No flowers and no colours and no light,
Nor any joy, nor you, O morning star.

What have I done to hurt you?  You have given
What I have given, and both of us have taken
Bravely and beautifully without regret. 
When have I sinned against you? or forsaken
Our secret vow?  Think you that I forget
One syllable of all your loveliness? 
What is this crime that shall not be forgiven?

Spring passes, the pale buds upon the pond
Shrink under water from my lonely oars,
The fern is squandering its final frond,
And gypsy smoke drifts grey from distant shores.

O soon enough the end of love and song,
And soon enough the ultimate farewell;
Blazon our lives with one last miracle,—­
We have not long.