The Heritage of the Skies

By George Sterling

Time was when I could whisper to the wind:
    "Fly to my Sweet, and kiss her mouth and hair!"
    Or to a flower: "Go! she will deem thee fair.
Who is herself the fairest of her kind."
And if the rain to blossoms mute and blind
    Came like a benediction of the air.
    This too I felt we had the joy to share,
Or in an equal dusk its peace to find.

But now a farther eve enfolds thy grace,
And alien winds caress thy magic face—
    My flowers at last will reach thee sear and dead.
        But when the moon is white on eastern skies,
Lo! on thy whiter brow her beams are shed!
        The selfsame stars make bright our tear-wet eyes!


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