Futility / Dorothy Dow

Futility
The nights grow long and the days cold — I dream of you and love. The dead leaf, falling from the tree, Is not more sad than memory; Nor is the rising wind as bold	       5 As were your lips on me. . .	(What are you thinking of?) The streets and trees and people pass Like words beneath my pen; Symbols, below a painted sky — I have no part in them. I lie Futile as footsteps on the grass. Wind-torn, storm-drenched; I long to die. (You might remember … then.)