So that's our parting, and our shining pain; And yet the dim wood arches as before, And the wind stirs our brown pine-needled floor, And you go stainless, -- you who are all stain. You still are beautiful and fierce and vain, And your strange shackles leave my wrists still sore, And yet I wait your knock upon the door Even while I know it cannot come again. I have the memory of your thirsty voice, And the long touch of your tempestuous hands, Stilled by the chasm of your final choice And your departure to remotest lands . . . You were the wiser, chose the safer thing . . . But I am weary with remembering! |