Stark Major

The lover’s death, how regular With lifting spring and starker Vestiges of the sun that somehow Filter in to us before we waken.

Not yet is there that heat and sober Vivisection of more clamant air That hands joined in the dark will answer After the daily circuits of its glare.

It is the time of sundering ... Beneath the green silk counterpane Her mound of undelivered life Lies cool upon her--not yet pain.

And she will wake before you pass, Scarcely aloud, beyond her door, And every third step down the stair Until you reach the muffled floor--

Will laugh and call your name; while you Still answering her faint good-byes, Will find the street, only to look At doors and stone with broken eyes.

Walk now, and note the lover’s death. Henceforth her memory is more Than yours, in cries, in ecstasies You cannot ever reach to share.