The sudden Thought of your Face is like a Wound When it comes unsought On some scent of Jasmin, Lilies, or pale Tuberose. Any one of the sweet white fragrant flowers,
Flowers I used to love and lay in your hair. Sunset is terribly sad. I saw you stand Tall against the red and the gold like a slender palm; The light wind stirred your hair as you waved your hand,
Waved farewell, as ever, serene and calm, To me, the passion-wearied and tost and torn, Riding down the road in the gathering grey. Since that day
The sunset red is empty, the gold forlorn. Often across the Banqueting board at nights Men linger about your name in careless praise The name that cuts deep into my soul like a knife;
And the gay guest-faces and flowers and leaves and lights Fade away from the failing sense in a haze, And the music sways Far away in unmeasured distance....
I cannot forget — I cannot escape. What are the Stars to me? Stars that meant so much, too much, in my youth; Stars that sparkled about your eyes,
Made a radiance round your hair, What are they now? Lingering lights of a Finished Feast, Little lingering sparks rather,
Of a Light that is long gone out.
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