23 (the river is grey)

THE RIVER is grey and the air dazed with blown sand.

        On a morning of dark disquiet, when the birds are mute and their nests shake in the gust, I sit alone and ask myself, 'Where is she?'

        The days have flown wherein we sat too near each other; we laughed and jested, and the awe of love's majesty found no words at our meetings.

        I made myself small, and she trifled away every moment with pelting talk.

To-day I wish in vain that she were by me, in the gloom of the coming storm, to sit in the soul's solitude.