Classic Poem

I

This is my wrong to you, O man that I love —
I who had all to give
And would have held back naught thereof,
I whom love taught to live,

When you asked for a loaf of my baking,
And a bit of blossomy spray,
Gave only these for your taking,
And hid the rest away.

II

Behind the house is the millet plot,
And past the millet, the stile;
And then a hill where melilot
Grows with wild camomile.

There was a youth who bade me goodby
Where the hill rises to meet the sky.
I think my heart broke; but I have forgot
All but the scent of the white melilot.

III

Though you should whisper
Of what made her weep,
She would not hear you —
She is asleep.

Though you should taunt her
With ancient heart-break,
She would not listen —
She is awake.

Passion would find her
Too cold for dishonor.
Candles beside her,
Roses upon her!

IV

Now have I conquered that which made me sad —
The bitterness and anguish and regret.
Yes, I have conquered it. And yet — and yet —
The moaning of the doves will drive me mad.