lost love poem

be not angry with me
some one complained to the master
she heard the children playing in the sun
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
lady, your heart has turned to dust
one with you
those black eyes i once so praised
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
here lies a most beautiful lady
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
beautiful, tragical faces
sweet splendor
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead