Poem

Goddess, the rocks are crumbling into sand; The moonlight trembles hesitant, as though Winter with all his winds and hoary snow Were gathering. Goddess, thy hand, Which has created shore and rock and ocean Within my heart, seems cold; I fear lest thou art growing old With me—the shattered wreck of my devotion. Goddess, there is no love in heaven or earth Without thee, and the stars grow dim with age When thine eyes are averted, and the rage Of winter winds turns luxury to dearth. What will it profit if we love no more (For I know thou hast loved in thine own way)? What will it profit, if for yesterday We substitute to-morrow, with its store Of sorrow? What is a dream for goddess?—not to be Immortal once is to be dead forever! And shall our eyes go blind and our lips never Meet? What is eternity, If not that moment of a wild embrace, When two souls recognize Their first bewildered contact, and two eyes Drink the white radiance of a lover’s face? Oh, ere the evening lights go gathering like fire Across the western portals—ere the sun Proclaims that life and life’s short tasks are done— Be thou the mistress of my pure desire, Be thou the goddess of my heart! A man cannot forget a woman’s eyes, If he has kissed them (as I have thine own In dreams). Love is an art Which men do not forget, when they have known The way a woman takes toward paradise. What weary fools we are! Dust is the same, Whether alive, or whether dead and rotten; And love is love, remembered or forgotten; And life is life, although it be a name. Let sorrow come, with many tears; or shame Alight upon my brow; or age deny What fiery youth would fain assert or die; Let even death wash all my dreams away Like sand—still I am I, To-morrow and to-day, and yesterday. Therefore I am immortal; and thy face Which I have called mine own, must live, must be Immortal with the very heart of me. On whatsoever shore, or in what place, Whether among the gods, or on the earth, Wherever man finds truth, or woman grace, Or Sorrow tears, or Laughter tears of mirth; Wherever love is, goddess, I shall be; Wherever I am, thou—the heart of me! Ah, we are weary fools— We men who talk of love and sorrow, And build philosophy upon old schools, And yearn for paradise to-morrow. We are insane! Creation dimly flows About us, yet like children do we play With our uncomprehended toys; And no one knows Wherefore in love these weary fools rejoice, And grasp at stars in their uncertain way. Yet I would rather be a fool, and love, Than drink of wisdom, and forget the stars; I’d rather tear life from Time’s calendars Than lose thy face, which I am dreaming of. Thus have I given all to be thy slave, And now I ask that thou remember this: ’Tis better to be mortal in a kiss, Than to be called immortal in a grave. RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT.