Two Sonnets

THE tides of Time that sweep our lives away
Must ebb for you as they recede from me.
You too, beloved, must grow old some day
And gaze at youth as I do, wistfully.
Then, in the gathering darkness, would I stand
Close by your side and hold you comforted,
When, like a frightened child, you seek my hand.
But when that need arises, I’ll be dead.
Remember then the things I did not say —
And which, unslain by words, by silence sanctified,
Remain behind when I have gone my way,
Too much your own to perish when I died.

And this still living part of me will come
To sit beside you, in the empty room.

Blossoms of words I gather for your sonnets,
Fragrant and many-hued, with heartstrings round them.
They are but decorations for your bonnets,
And others see and wonder where you found them.
These are the simple gifts of my impoverishment,
Poor starveling products of my artlessness,
Where, on my fancy’s frugal nourishment,
Fell random seeds of your great loveliness.
And though of little worth they seem to be,
When others lay great treasures at your feet,
You’ll know you’ve seen the stars at noon with me,
And heard the skylarks in a city street.

And when, with years, all other pleasures fade,
You’ll still repeat these silly rhymes I made.