Mary Aldis

CURIOUS you should not see my feet are weary—

Weary of the way you see so fair—

As wondering you look along each silver path with question

Why I will not tread.

Curious you should not see my eyes are weary,

Weary of the sorrow and the passion they have seen;

Asking now to close, the last kiss given,

The last word said.

Curious you should not see my hands are weary,

Weary with their ceaseless fluttering round little things;

Concerned no longer with caresses nor with loving,

Still and uncomforted.

Your young desire would take away my sorrow,

Do you not see I have but ashes for you?

I would not lay upon your eager breast

My weary head.

Your feet are hurrying, your soul is hungering—

You of the intent eyes, the questing will.

Why do you ask my two tired, empty hands

To give you bread?

You will not see my very soul is weary—

I think it died long, long ago, or fled.

Would you ask caresses from a shadow-woman—

Kisses from the dead?