* THE GRIEF *

A grief came unto me at noon of night

Blown on a breath of silky, southern air

With scent of myrtles and a crown of light

For aureole: vanished loveliness was there

And old, lost, magical things, all gracious and all rare.

Wings of cloud-purple from the Inland Sea,

Foam-tipped, my Grief outspread; the southern sun

Burned for a diadem, and mystery,

From the dim smoke of olive orchards won,

Arrayed that delicate shape in silver they had spun.

How little, little’ twixt our joy and woe!

Not sorrow then, but glad epiphanies

Of treasured happiness from long ago,

Had been my dreaming; but in bitter wise

The Grief looked on my face with a dead woman’ s eyes.