From an idle bird to a lonely tree in winter


What has gone and left you?  Love?
What is love to you?
Is it the lips you've kissed, the presently forgotten arms?
Was it the lovely lies, knocked and borrowed?

Is beauty your love?  Did you make the most of your little day?
Had you the knowledge of what to do with your brittle, summer plough-land?
Did biology speak, entreat or strike?
To which tumbled shed did the mouse vanish with your vows?  You knew not they were gone?

Indeed, that you were longer-lived, what sang might see a leave in your little see
Might sing why beauty is the must, sleeping in the will
The slow gnawing of a useless wagon, all alike
Seeking the life protested none, but itself set foot upon

Love is not a lament to be sung in your little house on your little street
It is the lamp left lit while you sought it in the twilight
Love is a sullen voice that must be brought out of the underworld
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow.