The Fowler

I HAD too much; a star, a sea,
A swift descending strength to cover me,
As winds enfold a hill.
Athirst I drank my fill,
Leaning with him above deep Beauty’s well,
Then on my day dark evening fell. . . .

Long are my nights and lone and cold,
And I am old
With grief for him. But my love knows. . . .
He hears the footsteps pass of one who goes
To look for him, who weeps and strains her breast
Against the earth wherein he lies at rest.
He feels her broken wing, her cry is heard,
The fowler hears his bird.