Complaint

MEN, women, call thee so and so;
I do not know.
Thou hast no name
For me, but in my heart a flame

Burns tireless, ’neath a silver vine;
And round entwine
Its purple girth
All things of fragrance and of worth.

Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb
Of pain! thou sob!
Thou like a bar
Of some sonata, heard from far

Through blue-hued veils! When in these wise,
To my soul’s eyes
Thy shape appears,
My aching hands are full of tears.

John Gray.