Another eve passed alone
and I ponder my cold bed,
the night air chilling to the bone,
the hearth of day dark…now dead.
Single candle, you burn low
on the window sill nearby,
your flame is small, your wax aflow
as the teardrops from an eye.
Do I fret the solitude
and its all-too-silent hours?
Do I linger in this dark mood
of a wine that quickly sours?
I take turns about my room
and recall your lips to mine;
and in that mournful midnight gloom
I can see the full moon shine.
It shines afar—ghostly wan
with the daylight it borrows
from a fickle sun that has gone
to happier tomorrows.
Away! Away! Flee you far
from whence you oft wished not leave;
you were as constant as a star—
now dew athwart spider-weave.
My looking-glass shines no more,
nor can it with thin moonbeams,
nor my eyes, nor my smile, nor your
gilded glamor in my dreams.
When I shine, now, I am pale
with the distant light of you,
you are memory of a tale
I tell myself: I love you.
Your scent no longer remains
nor shadows from your light;
I cannot clean these linen stains
of wine, and blood, red on white.