Xxiv

Perhaps, On my last day, Perhaps, Across my window sill, The sunlight frail and still Will fall and for a moment stay....

My hands--my hands then poor and witherèd-- By its glory will be made to gold; Slowly its kiss will glide, profound and bright, For the last time upon my mouth and head; And the flowers of my eyes, pale yet bold, Before they close, shall render back its light.

Sun, I loved your strength and clarity, indeed! My sweet and fiery poems at their height Have held you captive in the heart of them; Like field of wheat that surges in the might Of summer wind my words exalted you. Oh sun, who bring to birth and flower the stem, Oh immense friend, of whom our pride has need, In that so grave, imperious hour and new, When my old heart sadly endures the test, Be you still its witness and its guest!