..
... It seemed life held
No future and no past but this...
And I too got up stiffly from the earth,
And held my heart up like a cup...
THE GARDEN
Bountiful Givers,
I look along the years
And see the flowers you threw...
Anemones
And sprigs of gray
Sparse heather of the rocks,
Or a wild violet
Or daisy of a daisied field...
But each your best.
I might have worn them on my breast
To wilt in the long day...
I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase
And watched each petal sallowing...
I might have held them so--mechanically--
Till the wind winnowed all the leaves
And left upon my hands
A little smear of dust.
Instead
I hid them in the soft warm loam
Of a dim shadowed place...
Deep
In a still cool grotto,
Lit only by the memories of stars
And the wide and luminous eyes
Of dead poets
That love me and that I love...
Deep... deep...
Where none may see--not even ye who gave--
About my soul your garden beautiful.
UNDER-SONG
There is music in the strong
Deep-throated bush,
Whisperings of song
Heard in the leaves' hush--
Ballads of the trees
In tongues unknown--
A reminiscent tone
On minor keys...
Boughs swaying to and fro
Though no winds pass...
Faint odors in the grass
Where no flowers grow,
And flutterings of wings
And faint first notes,
Once babbled on the boughs
Of faded springs.
Is it music from the graves
Of all things fair
Trembling on the staves
Of spacious air--
Fluted by the winds
Songs with no words--
Sonatas from the throats
Of master birds?
One peering through the husk
Of darkness thrown
May hear it in the dusk--
That ancient tone,
Silvery as the light
Of long dead stars
Yet falling through the night
In trembling bars.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50