So, thou art gone; and I am left to wear Thy memory as a golden amulet Upon my breast, to sing a chansonnette Of winter tones, when summer time is here.
And yet, my heart arises from the dark, Where it fell back in silence when you went To seaward, and a sprite malevolent Sat laughing in the white sails of thy barque.
‘Twas not moth-wings dashing against the flame, Burning in love’s areanum; ‘twas a cry Struck from soul-crossing chords, that, separate, frame
Life’s holy calm, or wasting agony. But now between the warring strings there grows A space of peace, as ‘tween truce-honoured foes.