Incidental
How can I rid me
Of what is not mine:
This self that was youth's,
This song swift and fine
That wraps me with fire,
And yet is not mine?
Song to be seemly
For her that is I,
Is song low with sleep
To be hummed in a sigh,
As I weave cool reason
Out of sounds that go by.
And who would be wanting
Song not her own,
Though it warms with warmth
The sun has not known,
When she might be thinking,
And cold and alone?
Of what is not mine:
This self that was youth's,
This song swift and fine
That wraps me with fire,
And yet is not mine?
Song to be seemly
For her that is I,
Is song low with sleep
To be hummed in a sigh,
As I weave cool reason
Out of sounds that go by.
And who would be wanting
Song not her own,
Though it warms with warmth
The sun has not known,
When she might be thinking,
And cold and alone?
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