She comes reverent along these secret paths

drawn by veiled strings of chance,

guided by beckons on faraway shores

calling her to a procession for her alone.


The willows weep, sombre boughs

reaching for the ground in prayer.

Wistful in the passions of summer,

her feet carry her through their despair.


Eyes gaze about sullen canopies

Hands brush drooping leaves

A pensive glance perched on high brows

A gentle sigh escaping sympathetic lips.


She lays among the halcyon summer –

under the path of the insect, blissfully unhearkened

under the branch of the robin, her beautiful kindred

beneath the sun, kissing the valleys of her rosy skin.


And the insect will toil, but it is not her toiling heart.

The robin will sing, yet song is an angel's art.

The sun will kiss, but fain is it to do–

Indeed, for such an angel, what good will kisses do?


Does she remember? Can she forget?

How I let her go with such reluctance

for my withered hands could not keep her afloat.

Has she forgotten? Will she remember?


For there behind her eyes lingers the sight of me

stained with tears, a sight cursed, only glanced aside.

And the song is my heart, in moratorium but for her to hear,

courage, love, and cowardice on its fickle tide.