IV

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.