Too Late

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Title:     Too Late
Author: Helen Hay Whitney [More Titles by Whitney]

Upon your stone the wine of my desire
Is spilled. Your poppy lips have grown too pale
From fasting. Your white hands will not avail
The cold eyes of your heart to light the fire.
I did not think my prayers could ever tire.
Now, like doomed ships, they flutter without sail.
Lost in a calm which held no rock, no gale--
Now, when your chilly smile bids me aspire!

So, without history, my soul is slain--
Woman of barren love; the wine was red--
Beautiful for your spending. Not again
Will the bud blossom where the frost has sped.
Timid, you dared not hark when angels sang.
All, all is lost, without one saving pang.

[The end]
Helen Hay Whitney's poem: Too Late

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