Xxvi

Not Dead but Sleeping

And if I came, ah, if I came again, And laid my hand on your forgetful heart, Where once it lay so warm, could the pulse start, Remembering Spring? Now, at the sound of rain, I do but turn a little in disdain To see the flowers renew their lovely part, Blooming afresh. For memory holds no smart, Love aches no more to know how it was slain.

Yet if I came to you who heed no more My name upon the wind? Love's ghost, lean near, I have a word that only you may hear. If you should come to me with dear desire, My soul's dry staff should tremble to its core And flame against your touch in buds of fire.