AFTER LOVE

There is no magic any more,
    We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
    Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—
    There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
    Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm
    And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
    For all its peace.

  — Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933), American Poet.

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
  Why do ye fall so fast?
  Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
  To blush and gently smile,
    And go at last.

What, were ye born to be
  An hour or half’s delight,
  And so to bid good-night?
‘Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
  Merely to show your worth,
    And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
  May read how soon things have
  Their end, though ne’er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
  Like you, awhile, they glide
    Into the grave.

  — Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674), English Poet.