Monday, September 23, 2013

At Dusk

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

There at dusk I found you, walking and weeping 
Upon the broken flags,
Where at dusk the dumb white nicotine awakes and utters her
In a garden sleeping.

Looking askance you said:
Love is dead.

Under our eyes without warning softly the summer afternoon
let fall
The rose upon the wall,
And it lay there splintered.
Terribly then into my heart the forgotten anguish entered.

I saw the dark stone on the smallest finger of your hand,
And the clean cuff above.
No more, no more the dark stone on the smallest finger
Of your brown and naked arm,
Lifting my body in love!

Worse than dead is he of the wounded wing,
Who walks between us, weeping upon the cold flags,
Bleeding and weeping, dragging his broken wing.
He has gathered the rose into his hand and chafed her with his
But the rose is quiet and pale. She has forgotten us all.
Even spring.
Even death.

As for me, I have forgotten nothing,-nor shall I ever forget-
But this one thing:
I have forgotten which of us it was 
That hurt his wing.
I only know his limping flight above us in the blue air
Toward the sunset cloud
Is more than I can bear.

You, you there,
Stiff-necked and angry, holding up your head so proud,
Have you not seen how pitiful lame he flies, and none to befriend
Speak! Are you blind? Are you dead?
Shall we call him back? Shall we mend him?

Not my usual....but I liked it the first time i read it on another blog.