Loureine Aber

From “Laurel Wreaths”

DO not think of me sadly—only me—sadly,

I beseech you.

Let your little hands slur not an instant over the sweet passages,

Let not your lips be smitten—

It is well.

Here in the silver snuff of dusk,

That will put my single candle out, I know,

Silently, some evening, when the moon hangs low—

Here in the mellow hush of war

(War is a hush, that puts your legs on straighter,

And your torso fitter for the bait of gods),

I am well.

Candle or flame or moth—

Do not worry, do not slip a moment on the yellow path

Your little feet dance over, as a wild faun on the hills.

Do not be troubled—

It is well.