“To Myself,” from Spicewood, by Lizette Woodworth Reese

tomyself

To Myself

Girl, I am tired of blowing hot and cold;
Of being that with that, and this with this;
A loosened leaf no bough would ever miss,
At the wind’s whim betwixt the sky and mould.
Of wearing masks. Oh, I would rend them all
Into the dust that by my door is blown;
Of my old secret bare me to the bone.
Myself at last, none other! I would call:β€”β€”
“I had a lover once. This is the face
He lauded April-high and April-deep,
As fair a flower as hers of Camelot;
And yet he loved it but an April’s space.
This is myself indeed. Now hear me weep.
I had a lover once, but he forgot.”

from Spicewood, by Lizette Woodworth Reese
Baltimore : Norman, Remington Company, 1920

Available on the Internet Archive: Link

This is one in a series of neglected poems taken from the Internet Archive.

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