I know her, her bitter silence,
Her tiredness of her words and cries,
Lives in the secret changing brightness
Of widened pupils of her eyes.
Her heart is opened with craving
Only to music of the verse,
Before the life of joy and playing,
She stands aloof and won’t converse.
Her steps aren’t heard or ever hurried:
They’re quiet, oddly smooth and fine,
She can’t be called a beauty, starry,
But keeps all happiness of mine.
And, if I might be selfish ever,
Or brave and proud, as I could –
I’ll learn the pain, so sweet and clever,
In her delirious, dreamy mood.
A source of light in pine and sadness, —
She carries lightning in her hands,
Her dreams are clear, as clear the shadows
On flaming paradise’s sands.