The Myrtle Grove

The Myrtle Grove

I would not like to think your soul abides
In some grey wasteland of the suicides
Who, loathing the light, have flung their lives away,
And innocent, condemned themselves to stay
In the shadow of the act that, now it’s done,
They would exchange for one peep at the sun,
Though life were toil and trouble. The swamp of hate
Encircles them; their path is barred by fate.

I’d rather think you found yourself instead
Among the moon-dim ladies of the dead—
Phoenician Dido’s solemn sisterhood—
Who wander in that dark-leaved, fragrant wood
Sacred to Venus—in the myrtle grove
Where dwell the shades of those who died for love.

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