Poems (Van Vorst)/Three Years

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THREE YEARS!
I heard the wind in the trees   The stir of the leaves in the white birch tops Then sat alone with my past till dawn   Crept over the edge of the leas And a dull red line was drawn   In the East. There memory stops.
We do not follow our lives   As the almanacs run. I lived that night Three years in the past and three to be . . .   As foam that the sea-wind drives My thoughts sped on—three years and three,  Marked by this lock of white.
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