 | [Poems by Piatt in] Poems of two friends |  |
13
POSTSCRIPT.
I shall not hear from her again:
In all my blushing letters, long
I stole the secret from my pen,
And hid it in unwritten song.
Her letters, sweet as roses pressed,
Bloom from my dreaming heart to-day.
Flushing I wrote, in sweet unrest:
My rose forgot to climb for May.
In all my blushing letters, long
I stole the secret from my pen,
And hid it in unwritten song.
Her letters, sweet as roses pressed,
Bloom from my dreaming heart to-day.
Flushing I wrote, in sweet unrest:
My rose forgot to climb for May.
Long years: for her another's name—
Another's lip—another's arm—
(Ah, crawl into the ashes, flame!)
Another heart—though mine was warm.
My cricket, hush! his mirth is stilled;
Dream-flames among dream-embers play;
Another my Lost Heaven has filled:
My rose forgot to climb for May.
Another's lip—another's arm—
(Ah, crawl into the ashes, flame!)
Another heart—though mine was warm.
My cricket, hush! his mirth is stilled;
Dream-flames among dream-embers play;
Another my Lost Heaven has filled:
My rose forgot to climb for May.
Ah, well—the Postscript steals at last
Beneath shy letters, buried—dead:
“I love”—in my regret are cast
Low echoes, whispering words unsaid.
Sweet flowers, remember her, apart;
Write your sweet postscript here to-day
Upon her headstone—in my heart;
My rose forgot to climb for May.
Beneath shy letters, buried—dead:
“I love”—in my regret are cast
Low echoes, whispering words unsaid.
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Write your sweet postscript here to-day
Upon her headstone—in my heart;
My rose forgot to climb for May.
| [Poems by Piatt in] Poems of two friends | |