I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand…
And, proud of what my art had done,
I viewed my painting, knew the great
Of marble, water, steel and slate.
The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.
Seventeen years ago you said
Something that sounded like Good-bye;
And everybody thinks that you are dead,
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day
Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave,
Mortal Endymion, darling of the Moon!
“What queer books she must have read!”
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind…
And why should I be cold, my lad,
And why should you repine,
Because I love a dark head
That never will be mine?
Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.