Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/112



Repeat that song so close, so dear to me As if my passions’ tempestuous oceans My love my wasted youth's emotions My poesy were mirrored in its plea

At length she rose: And in her sheer white gown, draped loosely about her arms She looked more like a specter leaving his dark, cold tent, Beneath the stone he raised, than a living thing of charm. Gracefully she sat upon the low piano chair Two hands, like butterflies, dancing about the keys, And with her song, my soul’s wings spread upon the breeze, I saw again my home I felt the woodland air And she played on of happiness  and dreams  and youth.

Why do you flaunt before my aching head Love’s blood-stained rose, held boldly in your hand? Why all this flame? I would ask for a tear instead And be content with a lowly amaranth.

My head swoons weakly beneath love’s spent caress I have emptied long ago their cup of lies; And the feeble flame that lights my heart’s recess This, you’ll put out with the tear drops from your eyes.

I do not blame myself, the time, the world, Lord knows that now I would dread an excess of joy; Across my lips, reproach shall not be hurled, My soul refuses hope’s supporting buoy.

Why should we love, I ask you. Tell me why? When we no longer feel love’s scorching breath. Why look for peace, where haste and storms speed by, Where happiness to man comes after death.

Why should we tempt old dreams again to life, When strange to us appears their joyous dance. Why should we live in Fall as when our Spring was rife, Why should we weep when life laughs at its chance.

Our life is like an empty banquet hall Where you feel only hunger and a thirst, When passion’s flame grows weaker with each call, Never again into a blaze to burst.