Pamela Constantine
Youth
Never again will my soul set sail
On the wrapt and silver sea
Beyond the driftwood of empty worlds
And the stars that crowd to see
A crooked finger of magic moon
That beckons eternity.
Never in hanging tapestries
Of dawn will my heart take fire
Or dance the dance of the dying leaves
Over their funeral-pyre;
Never again hear the thoughts of Pan
With gold lips empty the lyre.
For the flower that filled with its foliage
The green acres of my mind
Is shed in tatters upon the air
And its fragrance gone behind,
And the spring is past which never again
Endeavour or tears can find.
Page(s) 33
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