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1893 - 1967
FOR A SAD LADY
And let her love when she is dead
Write this above her bones:
"No more she lives to give us bread
Who asked her only stones
On sweet young earth where myrtle presses
Long we lay, when the May was new.
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses.
The bud of the rose was told with dew.
And now on the brittle ground I am lying,
Screaming to die with the dead year's dead;
The stem of the rose is black and drying,
The willow is tossing the wind from her head.
The stars are soft as flowers and as near.
The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun.
No separate leaf or single blade is here -
All blend in one.
No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light
Rolls lazily, and slips again to rest.
There is no edged thing in all this night,
Save in my breast.
© 2000 Elena and Yacov Feldman