Poetry Archives

I said, “My youth is gone
 Like a fire beaten out by the rain,
That will never sway and sing
 Or play with the wind again.”

I said, “It is no great sorrow
 That quenched my youth in me,
But only little sorrows
 Beating ceaselessly.”

I thought my youth was gone,
 But you returned—
Like a flame at the call of the wind
 It leaped and burned;

Threw off its ashen cloak,
 And gowned anew
Gave itself like a bride
 Once more to you.