This handkerchief I wear against my heart
Once dried a tear of yours. Now it bides here,
And shall till I am summoned to depart. . . .
How odd the things we find comfort in!
I have picked violets - in that dreary year
When all my life was doubt - picked them because
I had the longing for you in my mind
So powerful, so painful so sweet, it seemed
Some savour of your presence must pervade
The buds my eyes dwelt on - and so these flowers
Fading to dust within my pocketbook.
Now you have kissed me and I have withheld
For a long day my lips from speech or food,
To leave them yours alone till set of sun,
A foolish whim. . . . But you did kiss me. Ah!
What shall enshrine remembrance of a kiss
Or hold its ghost from dawn to set of sun
For me, who have so many hours to live,
Or let my heart recall the mighty throb
That came when you said 'Dear!' from your deep chest
With wavering fullness?
So you shed one tear
Since all was done. Then came the handkerchief . . .
Why, that's the shroud that wraps the past. That's all
Remains for me to take some comfort in:
This is the catalogue: some dust of flowers,
A linen cerecloth , and a vanished kiss