No evening's rain has been like this;
And life, my heart, has little aim.
Is sweetest eve therefore to blame?
Of grace and grief, a woman's kiss?
This evening Lima rains, while I
Recall ungrateful, cruel caves;
My block of poppy-crushing ice
Shall best her words that wish my change.
My black and violent buds; the vast
Stone hail; the glacial distance roils;
Her calm, so dignified, has cast
A final point in burning oils.
As ne'er before this eve shall I,
With heart and owl, defy the rain;
As others pass and see me wane,
And take a part of you that hides
Amidst my brow's deep wrinkled pain.
Few evenings' rain have been like now;
And life, my heart, has slipped somehow.