Iv

Flower of the Clove

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.