Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. O beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love With youth, a singing voice, and eyes To take earth’s wonder with surprise? Why have I put off my pride, Why am I unsatisfied,— I, for whom the pensive night Binds her cloudy hair with light,— I, for whom all beauty burns Like incense in a million urns? O beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love? I SHALL NOT CARE[48] When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Though you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now. THE LONG HILL[49] I must have passed the crest a while ago And now I am going down— Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know, But the brambles were always catching the hem of my gown. All the morning I thought how proud I should be To stand there straight as a queen, Wrapped in the wind and the sun with the world under me— But the air was dull, there was little I could have seen. It was nearly level along the beaten track And the brambles caught in my gown— But it’s no use now to think of turning back, The rest of the way will be only going down. WATER LILIES[50] If you have forgotten water-lilies floating On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade, If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance, Then you can return and not be afraid. But if you remember, then turn away forever To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart, There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies, And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart. TIRED If I shall make no poems any more, There will be rest, at least, so let it be, Time to look up at golden stars and listen To the long mellow thunder of the sea. The year will turn for me, I shall delight in All animals, and some of my own kind; Sharing with no one but myself the frosty And half ironic musings of my mind. _Gladys Cromwell_