the trees grow slowly

when your beauty has grown old in all men’s songs, And my uncertain words are lost amid that throng, then you will know the truth of my words, and mayhaps dreaming of those who sigh your praises in their songs, you will think kindly then of these mad words. I am torn, torn with your beauty, o Rose of the sharpest thorn. Rose of the crimson beauty, why have you awakened the sleeper? why have you awakened the heart within me, O Rose of the crimson thorn ? the unappeasable loveliness is calling to me out of the wind, and because your name is written upon his ivory doors, the wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined, tossing the white foam towards you, and the lotus that pours her fragrance into the purple cup, it is more to be gained with the foam than are you with these words of mine.

he speaks to the moonlight concerning her pale hair that the moon has shaken down over the dark breast of the sea, her beauty has shaken the heart of me. Out of you have I woven a dream that shall walk in the lonely vale between the high hill and the low hill, until the stream of the souls of men. Voices speaking to the sun. Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over the green sheaf of the world, and through the dim forest and under the shadowed arches and the aisles we met and remembered when his eyes beheld her in that garden of the peach-trees, in the day of the blossoming.

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This entry was posted by Tournapin.

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