Love’s sundering

Bo Edwards

Bird alone, tired, red-garbed she sung, 

“Wailaway, soul, heart-sickened ill-wrung! 

Think not of the days sad and nights wrong, 

Think not of the living-tired birds’ song. 

Think rather of the noon’s breezy breath, 

The dawn’s slow crawl to light–not of love’s death! 

For he is gone, my beloved, and now dead; 

I am alone now with none in his stead.” 

How over-hard ’tis to love life when love has fled, 

How painful ’tis to weather the coming years of dread. 

But weather one must, despite pain of life, 

And ever one must live on, all yet for strife. 

She sighed a sigh of depthless love-struck pain 

And shortly began to speak once again: 

“All is naught, and naught is all, it seems, 

And love will come and then go as it deems. 

Yes, my love is gone, he is fled, fast-far– 

And now how terribly strange all things are!” 

The speckled fire-sky above spread the place 

With streaks of aureate light and sun-trace. 

She pined away and wept with sad relish, 

For pain is oddly heavenly-hellish. 

Her tears had fallen and were full ended. 

But still from her love–forever rended. 

The sun may set, and life might may go on, 

But love is eternally sundered; gone.