WE THREE

There is something that from between us has slipped away and left me chill, Something that by its loss has made the world less warm And made me feel as though the sun rising o’er the purple dew-touched hill, Finds its rays cold as it touches the face of dawn. Although we kiss and meet the same each day, You speak my name and I yours and we clasp hands, Yet from somewhere, I do not know which way, Stealing between us a lurking figure stands. A figure clad in gray.... To me a dream, a phantom come to steal My starlight quite away. To you a gay figure, not strange but real. And all the while it lurks and turns, And from every cell and corner of my brain I feel its presence and the burns Even of your kisses cannot make me sane. Why should this figure strange and sinister Keep on coming? Why should she in the night Breathe words of comfort and administer Balm to my soul, pointing the way to light? While when we meet in the day a dread silence lingers, A silence chill which with no kindness blends A word of cheer, or kind touch for my trembling fingers; No look to prove that we are even friends. Sometimes when you call my name I hear a tone Of her voice within yours, and you say Things which she will say at night and when alone, Or what she’s said before just that way. They say we dream in sleep, but I must dream by day, Because on waking she is a dream child, nor seems less fair, Though more cruel than when I left her in my sleep sitting there. If I could brush away this vision and start once again, If I could see sunlight and feel less sad, If I could only steady the confusion of my brain, Somewhere, somehow I might again be glad. And by a laugh or carefree jest, I might once more call your love from out the past And hold you closely to my side—lest, Again between us the figure stand and fast Would bind my hands and from me turn your face away, Making once more my day a night and my night a day. Ah, love, if we could turn Spring into last Spring again, Or if I could toss my heart away and make it new; If I could drink deeply of some draught to ease the pain, Or become more callous, less kind and far, far less true.... Less true to ideals, to love and you. Perhaps I will, then my brain will cease to ache, And this sad frenzied chaos I will not prolong; Then for yours, or mine or hers or each one’s sake, I will wave farewell to you, singing Love’s Swan Song. Singing Love’s Swan Song, so that this may truly be, That never again will false love take hold of me; I may be mad, but which is the maddest of we three, Is it you? Or I? Or is it she?