To My Mother

Some souls there are which never live their life;
Some suns there are which never pierce their cloud;
Some hearts there are which cup their perfume in,
And yield no incense to the outer air.
Cloud-shrouded, flower-cupped heart: such is thine own:
So dost thou live with all thy brightness hid;
So dost thou dwell with all thy perfume close;
Rich in thy treasured wealth, aye, rich indeed⁠—
And they are wrong who say thou “dost not feel.”
But I⁠—I need blue air and opened bloom;
To keep my music means that it must die;
And when the thrill, the joy, the love of life is gone,
I, too, am dead⁠—a corpse, though not entombed.
Let me live then⁠—but a while⁠—the gloom soon comes,
The flower closes and the petals shut;
Through them the perfume slips out, like a soul⁠—
The long, still sleep of death⁠—and then the Grave.