To Diane

The Ruddy poppies bend and bow, Diane! do you remember? The sun you knew shines proudly now, The lake still lists the breeze’s vow, Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains. Sing low—where is Diane? Diane! do you remember? I come to find you through the years, Diane! do you remember? For none may rule my love’s soft fears. The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you through your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls, High, low—where is Diane? Diane! do you remember? I crush the poppies where I tread, Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life, so bright, so red— She does not hear—Diane is dead. I pace the sunny bowers alone Where naught of her remains but stone. Sing low—where is Diane? Diane does not remember.

Collection: 

More from Poet

  • Sigh not for love,—the ways of love are dark! Sweet Child, hold up the hollow of your hand And catch the sparks that flutter from the star! See how the late sky spreads in flushing bars! They are dead roses from your own dear land, Tossed high by kindly breezes; lean, and hark, And...

  • Does the pearl know, that in its shade and sheen, The dreamy rose and tender wavering green, Are hid the hearts of all the ranging seas, That Beauty weeps for gifts as fair as these? Does it desire aught else when its rare blush Reflects Aurora in the morning’s hush, Encircling all...

  • Was there another Spring than this? I half remember, through the haze Of glimmering nights and golden days, A broken-pinioned birdling’s note, An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat, A wandering through rain-beaten ways! Lean closer, love—I have thy kiss! Was there another Spring than...

  • Kiss me but once, and in that space supreme My whole dark life shall quiver to an end, Sweet Death shall see my heart and comprehend That life is crowned, and in an endless gleam Will fix the color of the dying stream, That Life and Death may meet as friend with friend An endless immortality to...

  • I Will not look for him, I will not hear My heart’s loud beating, as I strain to see Across the rain forlorn and hopelessly, Nor, starting, think ’t is he that draws so near. I will forget how tenderly and dear He might in coming hold his arms to me, For I will prove what woman’s pride can be...