_Those Who Love_ Those who love the most, Do not talk of their love, Francesca, Guinevere, Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise, In the fragrant gardens of heaven Are silent, or speak if at all Of fragile, inconsequent things. And a woman I used to know Who loved one man from her youth, Against the strength of the fates Fighting in somber pride, Never spoke of this thing, But hearing his name by chance, A light would pass over her face. _Epitaph_ Serene descent, as a red leaf’s descending When there is neither wind nor noise of rain, But only autumn air and the unending Drawing of all things to the earth again: So be it; let the snow sift deep and cover All that was drunken once with light and air; The earth will not regret her tireless lover, Nor he awake to know she does not care. _Appraisal_ Never think she loves him wholly, Never believe her love is blind, All his faults are locked securely In a closet of her mind; All his indecisions folded Like old flags that time has faded, Limp and streaked with rain, And his cautiousness like garments Frayed and thin, with many a stain-- Let them be, oh let them be, There is treasure to outweigh them, His proud will that sharply stirred, Climbs as surely as the tide, Senses strained too taut to sleep, Gentleness to beast and bird, Humor flickering hushed and wide As the moon on moving water, And a tenderness too deep To be gathered in a word. _The Wise Woman_ She must be rich who can forego An hour so jewelled with delight, She must have treasuries of joy That she can draw on day and night, She must be very sure of heaven-- Or is it only that she feels How much more safe it is to lack A thing that time so often steals. “_She Who Could Bind You_” She who could bind you Could bind fire to a wall; She who could hold you Could hold a waterfall; She who could keep you Could keep the wind from blowing On a warm spring night With a low moon glowing. “_So This Was All_” So this was all there was to the great play She came so far to act in, this was all-- Except the short last scene and the slow fall Of the final curtain, that might catch half-way, As final curtains do, and leave the grey Lorn end of things too long exposed. The hall Clapped faintly, and she took her curtain call, Knowing how little she had left to say. And in the pause before the last act started, Slowly unpinning the roses she had worn, She reconsidered lines that had been said, And found them hardly worthy the high-hearted Ardor that she had brought, nor the bright, torn, Roses that shattered round her, dripping red. V