John Pierre Roche

THE EARTH lies stark in its dreary shroud—

As dead as the buds that flowered in May.

The moon is wrapped in a fleeting cloud:

Oh, for the sound of your voice!

You had love in your voice

So thrillingly true

That the pipes of Pan

Were an echo of you!

My heart grows cold in fright of the blast—

Like the cry of a loon in a haunted house

Is the voice of the wind as it rushes past:

Oh, for the clasp of your hand!

You had June in your heart,

And beauty so rare

That the roses of God

Bent low in despair.

My soul is numbed by the chill of the night;

A mourner lone on a lonely hill

I stand and watch a phantom light:

Oh, for the touch of your lips!