Luck Is Yours, Wish Is Mine
I found thy letter, love, at eventide...
A pale thing, folded like a withered flower;
Its scent still breathed of summer days that died,
Its words still murmured of a perished hour.
“Luck is yours, wish is mine, may your future always shine,”
So sang thy hand in tones too soft, too kind;
Ah, tender jest! that mocks this heart of mine,
Where mercy slays what malice leaves behind.
Thy script was fair as ever was thy face,
Yet every line did tremble like a lie;
I saw the ghost of love in each erased,
And felt thee pass once more, yet heard thee sigh.
O treachery sweet! O faith with perfumed breath!
How well thou smil’dst beside my ruined shrine;
I kissed thy words, though knowing them for death,
And read again their slow, deceitful shine.
The candle gutter’d low; the air grew dim,
The shadows leaned, like listeners at the door;
I heard thy name as through some broken hymn,
Half prayer, half curse, that would be sung no more.
I thought of nights thy hair lay on my chest,
Of tears unwept, of vows we made divine;
Now all lies cold, unclaimed, unblest...
Luck is yours, wish is mine, may your future always shine.
Yet when thy beauty wanes beneath its gold,
And memory stirs where silent sorrows creep,
May gentler hearts than mine thy hands enfold,
And guard thy dreams where I no longer weep.
For though love’s light is lost beyond recall,
Still would I have thy every joy be thine...
So go in peace; my heart forgives it all,
And prays thy stars burn brighter still than mine...
And prays thy stars burn brighter still than mine.
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