To Byron

I think about the morning of your glory,
The morning of your hours,
When like a demon you’ve awoken gloomy
And came a god to us.

I think about your eyebrows, how they cover
Two torches’ flames,
About the ancient blood that runs like lava,
Right through your veins.

I think about the fingers, very long and
Half sinking in the hair,
About those eyes, which always look so longing
For you – in halls and alleys,

About the hearts (you were too young to own them!)
You have not read,
At times when moons kept rising in your honour
And in your honour – set.

I think about the velvet, lace — in gather,
About the dusky hall,
And all the poems — only to each other
We would have told,

And what is left from lips, from eyes and hair —
A heap of dust,
I think of eyes that were interred here,
Yes, all of them — and us.

24 September 1913