Thursday, March 18, 2021

A Lost Girl

Let us tell the truth at last, the past is dead;
    Sunrise is ahead, soon the doves will pine;
    We’ve run out of artful lines, out of wine;
You never let me say what must be said:
I loved you from the time our eyes connected,
    Yet you kept your lashes safe behind a line
    Part fear, part retribution, nothing mine,
Although I wore the fur of blame instead.

How easy you denied your right to be
   Divinity embodied, nature’s way
That you seemed meant to be, Beatrice
   To me, the rise and the fall of the day,
The poetry made out of violent sea,
   An ideal created from love as much as clay.