I was walking to-day in search of thee
Through rain and gale around the still black pond,
Alive with fleeting rings coming and going,
Circling like pilgrims from the East beyond;
So I searched until the coming of the moon!
When was it last that I called upon thee
My muse of days that now have come and gone?
Thou whose eyes were like charcoal black and glowing,
The sweetest, saddest poems those eyes spawn,
Those fine eyes, dark as night — bright as the moon!
What should I say to her?, I ask of thee;
What would she hear, this muse of present day,
Who — like thee — has left me without knowing
If I should be with her now to convey
How bright she makes my life, like night and moon!
That night when I betrayed my heart to thee
Sitting on a window sill long ago
It was not speaking so much as showing,
That dark night like beauty: sad, endless — lo!
Watching from that sky: the bright, fearsome moon!
Muse! how then to tell her?, I ask of thee!
O thou who brought my soul new depth and light!
O to tell her or to remain forgoing?
Now, like always, there is silence and night;
An idol art thou, silent as the moon.
August 30, 2006