To My Mother

Some souls there are which never live their life; Some suns there are which never pierce their cloud; Some hearts there are which cup their perfume in, And yield no incense to the outer air. Cloud-shrouded, flower-cupped heart: such is thine own: So dost thou live with all thy brightness hid; So dost thou dwell with all thy perfume close; Rich in thy treasured wealth, aye, rich indeed— And they are wrong who say thou “dost not feel.” But I—I need blue air and opened bloom; To keep my music means that it must die; And when the thrill, the joy, the love of life is gone, I, too, am dead—a corpse, though not entombed. Let me live then—but a while—the gloom soon comes, The flower closes and the petals shut; Through them the perfume slips out, like a soul— The long, still sleep of death—and then the Grave.