The dusk gathers the riders. Do not compare yourself with these.
Why, they feel nothing. Do not dwell or hanker. Do not follow their
clothes of grey, your vanishing mist, slipping through the trees.
Why do they call you when my love gives you opal, cockatiels, keys
to open and enlighten secret rooms. Why sing in the shadow where
the dusk gathers the riders? Do not compare yourself with these
poor things, they are not real. Where will they lead you? Please
look at me. Where am I in your plans? Tell me. How am I to share
clothes of grey? Your vanishing mist slipping through the trees—
is that all I will have and hold of us? How can you? How she’s
lost him, they’ll say, as if I’ve been careless, when it’s just not fair.
The dusk gathers the riders—do not compare yourself with these.
When will you come back? When will your heart unfreeze?
If not for my sake then think of the children. Must they wear
clothes of grey, your vanishing mist? Slipping through the trees
without a word, you coward—you think escaping frees?
We’ll see. I’ll wear grey silks, the finest underwear. I don’t care
the dusk gathers the riders. Do not compare yourself with these
clothes of grey. Your vanishing? Mist slipping through the trees.