IV

Ah, Love, have pity!— I am but a child;

I ask but light and laughter, and the tears

Darken the sunlight of my fairest years.

By love made desolate, by love beguiled,

I waste the Spring. Love's harvest wains are piled

With poppies and gold grain — I glean but fears

Of empty hands, grim hunger, and the jeers

Of happy wives whose loves are reconciled.

But mine! Ah, mine is like a tattered leaf

Upon a turbid stream. I have no pride,

No life, but love, which is a bitter grief.

As a lost star I wander down your sky.

Give me your heart. Open it wide — so wide!

I must have love and laughter, or I die.