They see her face-
branded with Maybelline, Covergirl, MaryKay,
accentuating her best features.
The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Beautiful star with the crimson lips
And flagrant daffodil hair,
Come back, come back, in the shaking ships
O’er the much-overrated sea,
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
O moon with the brows of gold!
Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!
And light for my love her way,
There is no peace beneath the moon,-
Ah! in those meadows is there peace
Where, girdled with a silver fleece,
As a bright shepherd, strays the moon?
A fair slim boy not made for this world’s pain.
With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by foolish tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.
Thou knowest all- I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed-
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.