University of Virginia Library

The bird flies home to its young;
The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud;
And in my neighbor's house there is the cry of a child;
I close my window that I need not hear.

She is mine and she is very beautiful;
And in her heart there is no evil thought.
There is even love in her heart,
Love of life, love of joy, love of this fair world
And love of me (or love of my love for her);
Yet she will never consent to bear me a child.
And when I speak of it she weeps;
Always she weeps, saying
“Do I not bring joy enough into your life?
Are you not satisfied with me and my love
As I am satisfied with you?
Never would I urge you to some great peril
To please my whim; yet ever so you urge me;
Urge me to risk my happiness, yea life itself,
So lightly do you hold me.” And then she weeps
Always she weeps until I kiss away her tears,
And soothe her with sweet lies, saying I am content.
Then she goes singing through the house like some bright bird;
Preening her wings; making herself all beautiful;
Perching upon my knee, and pecking at my lips
With little kisses. So again love's ship
Goes sailing forth upon a portless sea
From nowhere into nowhere; and it takes
Or brings no cargoes to enrich the world. The years
Are passing by us. We will yet be old
Who now are young. And all the man in me
Cries for the reproduction of myself
Through her I love. Why love and youth like ours,
Could populate with gods and goddesses
This great green earth, and give the race new types
Were it made fruitful. Often I can see
As in a vision, desolate old age
And loneliness descending on us two
And nowhere in the world, nowhere beyond the earth
Fruit of my loins and of her womb to feed
Our hungry hearts. To me it seems
More sorrowful than sitting by small graves
And wetting sad eyed pansies with our tears.

The bird flies home to its young;
The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud,
And in my neighbor's house there is the cry of a child,
I close my window that I need not hear.