Craft another dream from dust, my dear, and think
Of me when the lilac sighs in early May; was there
Not something else I wished to say before I fly
From this sea-tranced isle in the earliness of spring?
Oft I think that such a dooméd thing as trag’dy
Suckles sleeping on the marrow of my bone, as
If I too were a Psyche held unknown in
Divinity’s elusive grasp ––were you a god,
Would you think of me, as did Apollo think of

Hyacinthus, as does sweet Selene in her moon-
Lit chariot long for Endymion? I was

Younger once, (I know, I’m growing still), and I thought
That I could write a song of lyre strings and yew,
That all my words would linger on as does mem’ry
Thereupon. But the sun today is flame alight,
And I think of when I’m gone –– will you remember
Me, as someone whom you once had loved? Or will you
Think of lilac trees, sighing sweetly in the breeze,
Their mournful flowers grown so young from such unruly
Seeds of love? Crown your brow with scented blossoms fair;
And think of me, all my despair, just like the nymphs
Who roamed the world and turned into a bird or herb––
Promise me you won’t forget all the things I’ve
Ever said. Perhaps there still are days to come;
Word or blossom, somehow, some way, I’ll live on.