Posted in Poetry


Woman Bathing Her Feet in a Brook by Camille Pissarro

Is it too foolish then, without hope?
Your soul was pure and true,
Your spirit was fire and dew,
The high stars shined in your horoscope.
And because I was very young, invisible,
And our fates were a great divide so wide,
Each was nothing to each, each to end; must it be told?
We were never to cross the paths – Impossible!
We were mortals strutting our hours; nothing beside?