I am worn out with dreams; A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams: And all day long I look Upon this lady’s beauty As though I had found in book A pictured beauty; Pleased to have filled the eyes Or the discerning ears, Delighted to be but wise: For men improve with the years. And yet and yet Is this my dream or the truth? O would that we had met When I had my burning youth; But I grow old among dreams, A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams. July 19, 1916. A Deep-Sworn Vow Others, because you did not keep That deep sworn vow, have been friends of mine, Yet always when I look death in the face, When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, Suddenly I meet your face. October 17, 1915. The Collar-Bone of a Hare Would I could cast a sail on the water, Where many a king has gone And many a king’s daughter, And alight at the comely trees and the lawn, The playing upon pipes and the dancing, And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss. I would find by the edge of that water The collar-bone of a hare Worn thin by the lapping of water; And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare At the old bitter world where they marry in churches, And laugh, over the untroubled water, At all who marry in churches, Through the white thin bone of a hare. July 5, 1915. Broken Dreams There is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing Because it was your prayer Recovered him upon the bed of death, But for your sake—that all heart’s ache have known, And given to others all heart’s ache, From meagre girlhoods putting on Burdensome beauty—but for your sake Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom, So great her portion in that peace you make By merely walking in a room. Your beauty can but leave among us Vague memories, nothing but memories. A young man when the old men are done talking Will say to an old man “tell me of that lady The poet stubborn with his passion sang us When age might well have chilled his blood.”