And Yet

I have no bitter places in my life,

All but the little things have passed me by.

My heart can neither hate nor love o’er much,

My path is smooth, well ordered and content,

Like a neat garden, where the flowers stand

Straight in a row, most pleasing to the eye.

No passion flowers grow there, nor any weed,

Only sweet blooms, but not too colourful.

I pity those I see who go distraught,

Beating their wings against the bars of life …

… But sometimes when at dusk I go alone,

And see two lovers wander hand in hand,

Mute and content, with dreaming look, their eyes

Wrapt, almost holy, as an angel’s wings

Had brushed them passing by. Or when I see

A mother smile upon her sleeping babe,

My eyes grow hot and wet – I know not why. 

1926 

 Forgotten

You are forgotten, little wife, who loved me;

I could not keep my faith when you were dead:

So many lids drooped shy beneath my glances –

– So many lips were red. 

1929