From the Heart: Three American Women - Willa

In the tavern of my heart
Many a one has set before,
Drunk red wine and sung a stave,
And, departing, come no more.
When the night was cold without,
And the ravens croaked of storm,
They have set them at my hearth,
Telling me my house was warm.
As the lute and cup went round,
They have rhymed me well in lay;
When the hunt was on at morn,
Each, departing, went his way.
On the walls, in compliment, 
Some would scrawl a verse or two,
Some have hung a willow branch,
Or a wreath of cornflowers blue.
Ah! my friend, when thou dost go,
Leave no wreath of flowers for me;
Not pale daffodils nor rue,
Violets nor rosemary.
Spill the wine upon the lamps,
Tread the fire, and shut the door;
So defile the wretched place,
None will come forevermore.

Across the shimmering meadows,
Ah, when he came to me!
In the springtime,
In the nighttime,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marshland
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower, 
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine
Not what he said to me!

Where are the loves that we have loved before
When once we are alone, and shut the door?
No matter whose the arms that held me fast, 
The arms of Darkness hold me in the last.
No matter down what primrose path I tend,
I kiss the lips of Silence in the end.
No matter on what heart I found delight,
I come again unto the breast of Night.
No matter when or how love did befall, 
'Tis Loneliness that loves me best of all,
And in the end she claims me, and I know
That she will stay, though all the rest may go.
No matter whose the eyes that I would keep
Near in the dark, 'tis in the eyes of Sleep
That I must look and look for evermore,
When once I am alone, and shut the door.

The old West, the old time,
  The old wind singing through
The red, red grass a thousand miles --
  And, Spanish Johnny, you!
He'd sit beside the water ditch 
  When all his herd was in,
And never mind a child, but sing
  To his mandolin.

The big stars, the blue night,
  The moon enchanted plain:
The olive man who never spoke, 
  But sang the songs of Spain.
His speech with men was wicked talk --
  To hear it was a sin,
But those were golden things he said 
  To his mandolin.

The gold songs, the gold stars,
  The world so golden then:
And the hand so tender to a child --
  Had killed so many men.
He died a hard death long ago
  Before the Road came in --
The night before he swung, he sang
  To his mandolin.