I never may turn the loop of a road
Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load--
My heart, that a second before was flying.
I never behold the quivering rain--
And sweeter the rain than a lover to me--
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
There's never a rose spreads new at my door
Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day--
What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
1.3k
I never may turn the loop of a road
Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load--
My heart, that a second before was flying.
I never behold the quivering rain--
And sweeter the rain than a lover to me--
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
There's never a rose spreads new at my door
Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day--
What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
1893 - 1967/Female/American