Three Poems , opus 9

To a lovely myrtle bound,
Blossoms showering all around,
Oh, how weak and weary I
Underneath my myrtle lie!

Why should I be bound to thee,
O my lovely myrtle tree?
Love, free love cannot be bound
To any tree that grows on ground.

Warm perfumes like a breath from vine and tree
Drift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes,
Somewhere an eukaleli thrills and cries,
And stabs with pain the night's brown savagery.
And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,
Gleam like a woman's hair, stretch out and rise;
And new stars burn into the ancient skies,
Over the murmurous, soft Hawaian sea.
And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,
And still remember, a tale I have heard or known,
An empty tale, of idleness, and pain,
Of two that loved or did not love, and one
Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,
A long while since, and by some other sea.

When in my night, like gaunt, gray phantoms, rise
The wild-eyed hours of brooding revery,
If in my heart a sudden anguish cries
That thou also hast passed away from me,
If I but think that one regretful sigh
Thy joyless love has breathed unaware,
I know not what a barren will to die
Dissolves my strength into a mute despair.
Oh, if upon thy breast I could then lay
My weary head and hear thee sing again
That old sweet song, and as it dies away
Exhale my spirit in its last refrain!