Poetry

I never shall know
while I live, what it meant. . . .

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,

Last of the Romany race,
Haply a king and queen,
Meal it with sorry grace
On the highway border of green.