 | The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter |  |
188
THE TEMPEST
Come, teasing wind, we will fly,
Seek our heart's desire, you and I;
Fit comrade for me,
Thou breath of liberty,
I sigh for the freedom of your wings.
The sea will make us horses for our speed,
The fields will give the perfume of their seed,
In the woods a sweet rose blowing,
We will scatter it in going,
And bear the lark up sunward as he sings.
Seek our heart's desire, you and I;
Fit comrade for me,
Thou breath of liberty,
I sigh for the freedom of your wings.
The sea will make us horses for our speed,
The fields will give the perfume of their seed,
In the woods a sweet rose blowing,
We will scatter it in going,
And bear the lark up sunward as he sings.
Go! we must part, you and I;
Not this my heart's desire, so goodbye!
Had I thought a moment's madness
Had wrought so dire a sadness,
My soul had never sorrowed for thy wings.
What have the tossing waves found for their play?
Have mercy, let the white face hide away!
In the fields a harvest dead,
In the woods life's promise fled,
And the lark is blown seaward as he sings.
Not this my heart's desire, so goodbye!
Had I thought a moment's madness
Had wrought so dire a sadness,
My soul had never sorrowed for thy wings.
What have the tossing waves found for their play?
Have mercy, let the white face hide away!
In the fields a harvest dead,
In the woods life's promise fled,
And the lark is blown seaward as he sings.
Far better you were sleeping, O my soul,
Than that your coming forth a moment stole
From another's heart its rest.
Die you silent in my breast
And seek in death that answer life denied:
Lest a dying voice should curse instead of pray,
Lest a heart should shadow, blighted of its May,
Lest a soul glad of its light
Should be plunged in gloom of night,
Be in the World's seeing satisfied.
Than that your coming forth a moment stole
From another's heart its rest.
Die you silent in my breast
And seek in death that answer life denied:
Lest a dying voice should curse instead of pray,
Lest a heart should shadow, blighted of its May,
Lest a soul glad of its light
Should be plunged in gloom of night,
Be in the World's seeing satisfied.
| The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter | |