For two different people, by two different reasons.
April is the cruellest mont, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain
She loves me…she loves me not.
I tear my hands, scatter the broken fingers…loves me not
As we scatter the random riddling heads of daisies
Tumbling through summer.
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow.
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy Earth
Swung blindly and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.