Turning, turning, ever turning in my trembling heart,
Flashing in the noonday splendor, gleaming in the dark—
Memory, a sword is buried where no man may walk,
Phantoms of sweet dreams still linger and grim specters stalk.
Two keen edges ever whetted by my thoughts that cling
Press the honey from the flowers mid the thorns that sting.
One blade opens up sweet vistas through a woodland fair
Where the music love is making fills the fragrant air.
But the other blade is whetted and must cut its way
To a prison-house of captives of another day­—
Disappointments, blindly waiting, starving for a crumb,
Dare not moan, but sing in silence—pain has made them dumb.
Turning, turning, ever turning in my trembling heart
Memory may bless or grieve me with her subtle art.