Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass


I learnt to write to you in happier days,
 And every letter was a piece I chipped
 From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
 To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
 My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
 But now my letters are like blossoms pale
We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
 I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
Although you do not heed; the long, sad years
 Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which no one hears.