John Jones
At the Piano
I
Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June’s fist
grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring’s
sprouts, decay;
Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards
packed for storm’s play!
II
Nay, say Decay’s self be but last May’s elf, wing shifted, eye
sheathed—
Changeling in April’s crib rocked, who lets ‘scape rills locked
fast since frost breathed—
Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—
bloom frost bequeathed?
III
Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief’s heart’s
cracked grate’s screech?
Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate’s way and shews on
shame’s beach
Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love’s shrimps lie, a
toothful in each.
IV
Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth’s lip, which
drops them and grins—
Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy
thrilled their fins—
Hues of the pawn’s tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for
our sins!
V
Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love’s tears melt—flies
caught in time’s mesh!
Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood
and stews flesh;
Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them
afresh.
Old times left perish, new time to cherish; life just shifts its
tune;
As, when the day dies, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;
Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!
A.C. Swinburne.