Les Mouches Fantastiques (amateur journal)/March 1920/Air

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Air

O love! sing me a little song,
For I am very sad.
My eyes grow misty with the salt of tears,
And all my soul is sick.
As unborn children in the mother’s womb
Hang heavy as they grow,
So sorrow hangs in me and bears me down,
Who have born all things since my time began.

O love! I love too much, I know,
And find the loving pain,
For all my gift of love bears not new love,
Only my faith begets a little wonder at its constancy.
And shall my gift be good
In sight of any man when one I love
These days finds it not good in sight of him?

—Roswell George Mills

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