Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!
Not a knife. I never use one—
I've the right thing on my watch-chain
Which some fool or other gave me—
Takes the end off in a second—
Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.
See! The soft wreath upward curling,
Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;
Blue as skies in mild October;
Vague, elusive as delight is.
Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to
When they're looked at by a dreamer!
Waves that moan—cold, gray, and curling,
On a shore where gray rocks break them;
Skies where gray and blue are blended
As our life blends joy and sorrow.
Angel wings, and smoke of battles,
Lines of beauty, curved perfection!
Half-shut eyes see many marvels;
Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes
Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny—
Beckoning hands and warning fingers—
But the gray cloud always somehow
Ends by looking like a woman.
Like a woman tall and slender,
Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,
Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.
Through my half-shut eyes I see her—
Through my half-dead life am conscious
Of her pure, perpetual presence.
Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly
Till they make a level landscape,
Toneless, dull, and very rainy—
And an open grave—I saw it.
Through the rain I heard the falling
Of the tears the heart sheds inly.
Oh, I saw it! I remember
Leafless branches, dripping, dripping,
Through a chill not born of Autumn.
To that grave tends all my dreaming—
Oh, I saw it, I remember ...
By that grave all dreaming ended!