Lost Companion

By George Sterling

You that on the heavens look,
Tell us which way Daphne took.
Daphne laughed, but when she died
We who burnt her body cried.
Frail she seemed as flower-tips,
Yet our strong men sought her lips,
And the breast of love's delight
Only death could make more white;
Only time can make her less
Portion of our loneliness.
When the voice of falling rain
Tells that spring will come again,
For a little we are dumb,
Knowing that she will not come-
Knowing that she cannot hear
When we call her more than dear.

Now the weather grows more sharp;
There is dust upon the harp.
Winter makes the shadows thin
Of the woods she wandered in.
Dimly one remembers now
What the bird sang on the bough,
But no heart forgets her words,
Lyrical beyond the bird's-
Haunting echoes that awake
Where the gentlest waters break.
She that went, far traveller,
Knew that we should follow her;
But how shall we find her face
When her foot left not a trace?
That we leave until the day
When we too shall take her way,
Now content with memories
Of her enigmatic kiss-
Marvelling she laughed so well,
With so much she dared not tell.
Half it seems we might have known
Sought by all she walked alone,
For the tears she would not shed
Inward ate and inward bled,
And the songs she left behind
Hold the sorrows of the wind.

You that are the first to go.
Tell her that at last we know.

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