And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times,
When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind,
But we grow never weary
For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes
Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus
And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings,
The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
The moth-hour of our day is upon us
Holding the dawn;
There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes
Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn
As a maiden, holding her fingers,
The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn."
He saith: "Red spears bore the warrior dawn
Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten
The red spears of the dawn,
The pennants of the morning?"
She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now
Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour
Together with him; softly
For we are old."