She Turned Her Face From Me

She turned her face from me, so pale, Like waning moons that softly fail, And drift beyond the tides of sight, Lost within the arms of night. Her eyes, once stars that lit my way, Grew cold as dawn that will not stay, And silence wove its silver thread Through all the words we left unsaid. I called her name—the wind replied, A hollow echo, deep and wide. I reached, but found an empty space, A ghostly hush, a vanished grace. The roses bloomed, then fell apart, Their petals red within my heart, And time, that thief of love and May, Bore all I cherished far away. Still, in the dusk, her shade I see— She turned her face, but not from me, For in the quiet, dark and deep, She haShe turned her face from me one night, Beneath the stars' cold silver light, And in her eyes, I could not see The love that once burned bright for me. The wind was soft, the air was still, The garden lay beyond the hill, But all the world had lost its tune— The roses closed beneath the moon. Her lips were pale, her voice was low, A whisper lost where wild winds blow, And though I reached, she slipped away— A ghost upon the edge of day. The summer died, the leaves grew thin, The frost crept silent, white as sin, And though the earth turned ever on, The warmth I knew was gone—was gone. Now only shadows walk with me, Where once she shone so tenderly, And though the stars still gleam above, They do not sing, they do not love.