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Poem by Arthur William Symons
I bring to thee, for love, white roses, delicate Death! White lilies of the valley, dropping gently tears, The white camellia, the seal of perfect years, The misty white azalea, flickering as a breath. White flowers I bring, and all the flowers I bring for thee, Discreet and comforting Death! for those pale hands of thine; O hands that I have fled, soft hands now laid on mine, Softer than these white flowers of life, thy hands to me, Most comfortable Death, mother of many dreams, And gatherer of many dreams of men, Dreams that come desolately flying back again, With soiled and quivering wings, from undiscovered streams. I have been fearful of thee, mother, all life long, For I have loved a warm, alluring, treacherous bride, Life, and she loved thee not; to hold me from thy side, She closed her arms about my heart, to do thee wrong. O gay and bitter bride of such divine desires, Too fiercely passionate Life, that wast so prodigal Of thine eternal moments, at the end of all Take my forgiveness: I have passed through all thy fires. Nothing can hurt me now, and having gained and lost All things, and having loved, and having done with life, I come back to thy arms, mother, and now all strife Ceases; and every homeward-flying dream, wind-tossed, My soul that looks upon thy face and understands, My throbbing heart that at thy touch is quieted, And all that once desired, and all desire now dead, Are gathered to the peace and twilight of thy hands.
Arthur William Symons
Arthur William Symons's other poems:
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