In the lagoon-blue dusk, bronze-fringed,

Strong youths bore off, entranced their evening ladies;

Into the moon-dew’d grass—the twilight havens —–

Tinged with opalescent desire,

The iced hills scorched with a midnight fire,

And I heard no rebukes for boldness,

Till the dawn’s coldness . . .

 

 

Some recall their old surrender,

Aged and reduced, they weep at that soft fierceness,

Others laugh, seeing again the stars’ patterns

Splendour . . . laugh sadly, while missing

The Warm naivete of kissing.

Why has it blanched to stagnant chillness,

At evening’s stillness?

 

 

Oh, my youths, my girls at dusk-time,

I hear your laughing and weeping––a night-sigh . . .

If I could weep with you, or yield to laughter—

Sublime! The high grass waving chaste—–

We who don’t risk or loose are not replaced,

Their breath is mingled with lost breezes.

For that, thank Jesus . . . .

 

 

 

M.H.

xxxi/iii/mcmxli.