SOmany times in those dark days,Instinct with sudden hope he crept,(When sad, infrequent hands would raiseThe startled notes where sound had slept)Seeking the voice he used to hear,Close-crouching at his master’s knees,Hoping to find again the dearFamiliar hand upon the keys.In very truth there was a soulBehind his brown and faithful eyes.There live some mortals, on the wholeLess loving, tender, loyal, wise;And though we give it to decay,His poor old body, worn and scarred;Yet He who judges soul and clayWill give one dog his just reward.And that would be to let him comeToward dim-heard music, far and sweet;Seeking with eyes rejoiced and dumb;Seeking with swift, unerring feet,With love supreme to guide him true,Across the misty ways of space,—Until he found the one he knew,And looked into his master’s face.
SOmany times in those dark days,Instinct with sudden hope he crept,(When sad, infrequent hands would raiseThe startled notes where sound had slept)Seeking the voice he used to hear,Close-crouching at his master’s knees,Hoping to find again the dearFamiliar hand upon the keys.In very truth there was a soulBehind his brown and faithful eyes.There live some mortals, on the wholeLess loving, tender, loyal, wise;And though we give it to decay,His poor old body, worn and scarred;Yet He who judges soul and clayWill give one dog his just reward.And that would be to let him comeToward dim-heard music, far and sweet;Seeking with eyes rejoiced and dumb;Seeking with swift, unerring feet,With love supreme to guide him true,Across the misty ways of space,—Until he found the one he knew,And looked into his master’s face.
SOmany times in those dark days,Instinct with sudden hope he crept,(When sad, infrequent hands would raiseThe startled notes where sound had slept)Seeking the voice he used to hear,Close-crouching at his master’s knees,Hoping to find again the dearFamiliar hand upon the keys.
In very truth there was a soulBehind his brown and faithful eyes.There live some mortals, on the wholeLess loving, tender, loyal, wise;And though we give it to decay,His poor old body, worn and scarred;Yet He who judges soul and clayWill give one dog his just reward.
And that would be to let him comeToward dim-heard music, far and sweet;Seeking with eyes rejoiced and dumb;Seeking with swift, unerring feet,With love supreme to guide him true,Across the misty ways of space,—Until he found the one he knew,And looked into his master’s face.
ISEEupon the desert’s yellow rim,Beyond the trodden sand and herbage whiteOf level noon intolerably bright,A purple lure of love divine and dim.I hasten toward the fronded palm trees slim—The fountains of the city of delight—And stand bewildered to my heart’s despiteIn empty plains where hot horizons swim.Will I who love the vision gain at lastFor very love of love the city’s gates?I, weary, desert-wandering, knowing this:That waiting me the golden doors are fast,And fathom-deep in dream the Princess waits,Her curving mouth uplifted for the kiss.
ISEEupon the desert’s yellow rim,Beyond the trodden sand and herbage whiteOf level noon intolerably bright,A purple lure of love divine and dim.I hasten toward the fronded palm trees slim—The fountains of the city of delight—And stand bewildered to my heart’s despiteIn empty plains where hot horizons swim.Will I who love the vision gain at lastFor very love of love the city’s gates?I, weary, desert-wandering, knowing this:That waiting me the golden doors are fast,And fathom-deep in dream the Princess waits,Her curving mouth uplifted for the kiss.
ISEEupon the desert’s yellow rim,Beyond the trodden sand and herbage whiteOf level noon intolerably bright,A purple lure of love divine and dim.I hasten toward the fronded palm trees slim—The fountains of the city of delight—And stand bewildered to my heart’s despiteIn empty plains where hot horizons swim.
Will I who love the vision gain at lastFor very love of love the city’s gates?I, weary, desert-wandering, knowing this:That waiting me the golden doors are fast,And fathom-deep in dream the Princess waits,Her curving mouth uplifted for the kiss.
EARTH’s parchèd lipsDrink coolness once again, for daylight dies.The young moon dips,A threaded gleam where sunset languid lies,And slowly twilight opens starry eyes.Low in the WestDay’s fading embers cast a last faint glowBehind a crestWhere curving hills on primrose paleness showSharp-lined in jet. Dusk stillness broods below.A first long sighStirs from the broad and dew-wet breast of night.The leaves replyWith soft small rustling, moths take ghostly flight,And waking crickets shrill long-drawn delight.
EARTH’s parchèd lipsDrink coolness once again, for daylight dies.The young moon dips,A threaded gleam where sunset languid lies,And slowly twilight opens starry eyes.Low in the WestDay’s fading embers cast a last faint glowBehind a crestWhere curving hills on primrose paleness showSharp-lined in jet. Dusk stillness broods below.A first long sighStirs from the broad and dew-wet breast of night.The leaves replyWith soft small rustling, moths take ghostly flight,And waking crickets shrill long-drawn delight.
EARTH’s parchèd lipsDrink coolness once again, for daylight dies.The young moon dips,A threaded gleam where sunset languid lies,And slowly twilight opens starry eyes.
Low in the WestDay’s fading embers cast a last faint glowBehind a crestWhere curving hills on primrose paleness showSharp-lined in jet. Dusk stillness broods below.
A first long sighStirs from the broad and dew-wet breast of night.The leaves replyWith soft small rustling, moths take ghostly flight,And waking crickets shrill long-drawn delight.
TOscreen this depth of shade that sleeps,Beyond the garden’s shine,On José’s careful strings there creepsA little slender vine.José is kind ... but age is cold:My laughter meets his sigh.The house is old, the garden old—Oh, young, the vine and I!I love the web of light it weavesAcross my half-drawn thread;It’s speech to me of waking leaves,While José hears his Dead.So, ever reaching, tendril-fine,My eager visions run;So, as the long day passes, twineMy thoughts, shot through with sun.
TOscreen this depth of shade that sleeps,Beyond the garden’s shine,On José’s careful strings there creepsA little slender vine.José is kind ... but age is cold:My laughter meets his sigh.The house is old, the garden old—Oh, young, the vine and I!I love the web of light it weavesAcross my half-drawn thread;It’s speech to me of waking leaves,While José hears his Dead.So, ever reaching, tendril-fine,My eager visions run;So, as the long day passes, twineMy thoughts, shot through with sun.
TOscreen this depth of shade that sleeps,Beyond the garden’s shine,On José’s careful strings there creepsA little slender vine.
José is kind ... but age is cold:My laughter meets his sigh.The house is old, the garden old—Oh, young, the vine and I!
I love the web of light it weavesAcross my half-drawn thread;It’s speech to me of waking leaves,While José hears his Dead.
So, ever reaching, tendril-fine,My eager visions run;So, as the long day passes, twineMy thoughts, shot through with sun.
THEvanished women of my race,The daughters of a moldering year,Set often in this quiet placeTheir votive tapers burning clear.The patient waxen wreaths they wove,They hung before the Virgin’s shrine;To them it was a work of love,José decrees it task of mine!They glimmer where a portrait swings—Women as proud and white as death—Ah, they could mold those lifeless things;They had no blood, they had no breath.“For holiness and meekness strive”(José would have me pray their prayers).Now, Mary, warm and all alive,You shall not think me child of theirs.So many waxen prayers you heard!If I should heap your altar highWith boughs that knew the nesting bird,With flowers that bloomed against the sky,And let my wondering soul ascendIn vivid question, swift surmise—I think your shadowy face would bend,And look at me with startled eyes.
THEvanished women of my race,The daughters of a moldering year,Set often in this quiet placeTheir votive tapers burning clear.The patient waxen wreaths they wove,They hung before the Virgin’s shrine;To them it was a work of love,José decrees it task of mine!They glimmer where a portrait swings—Women as proud and white as death—Ah, they could mold those lifeless things;They had no blood, they had no breath.“For holiness and meekness strive”(José would have me pray their prayers).Now, Mary, warm and all alive,You shall not think me child of theirs.So many waxen prayers you heard!If I should heap your altar highWith boughs that knew the nesting bird,With flowers that bloomed against the sky,And let my wondering soul ascendIn vivid question, swift surmise—I think your shadowy face would bend,And look at me with startled eyes.
THEvanished women of my race,The daughters of a moldering year,Set often in this quiet placeTheir votive tapers burning clear.
The patient waxen wreaths they wove,They hung before the Virgin’s shrine;To them it was a work of love,José decrees it task of mine!
They glimmer where a portrait swings—Women as proud and white as death—Ah, they could mold those lifeless things;They had no blood, they had no breath.
“For holiness and meekness strive”(José would have me pray their prayers).Now, Mary, warm and all alive,You shall not think me child of theirs.
So many waxen prayers you heard!If I should heap your altar highWith boughs that knew the nesting bird,With flowers that bloomed against the sky,
And let my wondering soul ascendIn vivid question, swift surmise—I think your shadowy face would bend,And look at me with startled eyes.
THEYplanted lilies where they might,A drift of Vestals slim and tall,That lined these winding paths with white,That filled the court from wall to wall.They shrank from savage, splendid heat,As from their teasing fires of Hell—Only when morns and eves were sweetThey walked and liked their garden well.Slow moving through a pallid mist,Always in black, in black they came,With busy rosary on wrist ...And all the summer world aflame!I planted flowers that know the sun,I brought them in from field and stream,I passed not by the smallest oneThat pleased me with a yellow gleam;Then in a hidden chest I foundThe marvel of an old brocade—Strange figures on an azure ground,With threads of crimson overlaid,And when the noon is fierce and bright,Along the garden, fold on fold,My silken splendor like a lightI trail between the aisles of gold.
THEYplanted lilies where they might,A drift of Vestals slim and tall,That lined these winding paths with white,That filled the court from wall to wall.They shrank from savage, splendid heat,As from their teasing fires of Hell—Only when morns and eves were sweetThey walked and liked their garden well.Slow moving through a pallid mist,Always in black, in black they came,With busy rosary on wrist ...And all the summer world aflame!I planted flowers that know the sun,I brought them in from field and stream,I passed not by the smallest oneThat pleased me with a yellow gleam;Then in a hidden chest I foundThe marvel of an old brocade—Strange figures on an azure ground,With threads of crimson overlaid,And when the noon is fierce and bright,Along the garden, fold on fold,My silken splendor like a lightI trail between the aisles of gold.
THEYplanted lilies where they might,A drift of Vestals slim and tall,That lined these winding paths with white,That filled the court from wall to wall.
They shrank from savage, splendid heat,As from their teasing fires of Hell—Only when morns and eves were sweetThey walked and liked their garden well.
Slow moving through a pallid mist,Always in black, in black they came,With busy rosary on wrist ...And all the summer world aflame!
I planted flowers that know the sun,I brought them in from field and stream,I passed not by the smallest oneThat pleased me with a yellow gleam;Then in a hidden chest I foundThe marvel of an old brocade—Strange figures on an azure ground,With threads of crimson overlaid,
And when the noon is fierce and bright,Along the garden, fold on fold,My silken splendor like a lightI trail between the aisles of gold.
ACROSSJosé’s unending drone(Some ancient tale of arms and doom)There came a poignant sweetness blownFrom sleeping leagues of orange bloom.And lo! the steady candles blurredLike shining fishes in a net,And José’s kindly voice I heard—“But little one, thine eyes are wet.”He vowed the tale had made me weep,Its shadowy woes in courtly speech,Nor knew they passed like wraiths of sleepThe heart a vagrant wind could reach.How can I tell, whose fancy floatsAs swift and passionate impulse veers,What gust may sweep its roseleaf boatsAdown a sudden tide of tears?
ACROSSJosé’s unending drone(Some ancient tale of arms and doom)There came a poignant sweetness blownFrom sleeping leagues of orange bloom.And lo! the steady candles blurredLike shining fishes in a net,And José’s kindly voice I heard—“But little one, thine eyes are wet.”He vowed the tale had made me weep,Its shadowy woes in courtly speech,Nor knew they passed like wraiths of sleepThe heart a vagrant wind could reach.How can I tell, whose fancy floatsAs swift and passionate impulse veers,What gust may sweep its roseleaf boatsAdown a sudden tide of tears?
ACROSSJosé’s unending drone(Some ancient tale of arms and doom)There came a poignant sweetness blownFrom sleeping leagues of orange bloom.
And lo! the steady candles blurredLike shining fishes in a net,And José’s kindly voice I heard—“But little one, thine eyes are wet.”
He vowed the tale had made me weep,Its shadowy woes in courtly speech,Nor knew they passed like wraiths of sleepThe heart a vagrant wind could reach.
How can I tell, whose fancy floatsAs swift and passionate impulse veers,What gust may sweep its roseleaf boatsAdown a sudden tide of tears?
WHEREman has marred and nature yields,And never plant nor beast is free,Along the tame and trampled fieldsAn old unrest has followed me.Now walk alone the night and IOn foaming reaches curving stark,And battling with a windy skyThe stormy moon is bright and dark.Facing the sea with streaming hair,My broken singing flung behind,Whipped by the keen exultant airTill lips must close and eyes are blind,Loving the sharp and cruel spray,The great waves thundering, might on might,The pagan heart must shout and sway,Tossed in the passion of the night.
WHEREman has marred and nature yields,And never plant nor beast is free,Along the tame and trampled fieldsAn old unrest has followed me.Now walk alone the night and IOn foaming reaches curving stark,And battling with a windy skyThe stormy moon is bright and dark.Facing the sea with streaming hair,My broken singing flung behind,Whipped by the keen exultant airTill lips must close and eyes are blind,Loving the sharp and cruel spray,The great waves thundering, might on might,The pagan heart must shout and sway,Tossed in the passion of the night.
WHEREman has marred and nature yields,And never plant nor beast is free,Along the tame and trampled fieldsAn old unrest has followed me.
Now walk alone the night and IOn foaming reaches curving stark,And battling with a windy skyThe stormy moon is bright and dark.
Facing the sea with streaming hair,My broken singing flung behind,Whipped by the keen exultant airTill lips must close and eyes are blind,
Loving the sharp and cruel spray,The great waves thundering, might on might,The pagan heart must shout and sway,Tossed in the passion of the night.
OH, never wings the Sisters chide,Wild upward wings that shine and blur,Nor mourn they winds of eventideThat bid the rhythmic garden stir,And yet this life I cannot still,This winged and restless strength of flight,That swings me down a singing hillOr answers to the calling night,They curb when I would dance, would dance!By all the graven Saints, it seemsMost strange they make for my mischanceNo grim confessional of dreams!The flower of Heart’s Desire is sownIn fields unknown to waking sight,Down glittering spaces, all aloneI whirl the fire of my delight—Then, on the music’s ebb and flow,Pause as a poising bird is hung,With supple body swaying slow,With parted lips and arms up-flung.
OH, never wings the Sisters chide,Wild upward wings that shine and blur,Nor mourn they winds of eventideThat bid the rhythmic garden stir,And yet this life I cannot still,This winged and restless strength of flight,That swings me down a singing hillOr answers to the calling night,They curb when I would dance, would dance!By all the graven Saints, it seemsMost strange they make for my mischanceNo grim confessional of dreams!The flower of Heart’s Desire is sownIn fields unknown to waking sight,Down glittering spaces, all aloneI whirl the fire of my delight—Then, on the music’s ebb and flow,Pause as a poising bird is hung,With supple body swaying slow,With parted lips and arms up-flung.
OH, never wings the Sisters chide,Wild upward wings that shine and blur,Nor mourn they winds of eventideThat bid the rhythmic garden stir,
And yet this life I cannot still,This winged and restless strength of flight,That swings me down a singing hillOr answers to the calling night,
They curb when I would dance, would dance!By all the graven Saints, it seemsMost strange they make for my mischanceNo grim confessional of dreams!
The flower of Heart’s Desire is sownIn fields unknown to waking sight,Down glittering spaces, all aloneI whirl the fire of my delight—
Then, on the music’s ebb and flow,Pause as a poising bird is hung,With supple body swaying slow,With parted lips and arms up-flung.
ALWAYSof Heaven the Sisters tell,Although of earth I question most—I would I knew the world as wellAs Peter and the Angel host!José may journey, never I.In all the lonely hours I spendHe bids me tell my beads and sigh....I wonder if the Saints attend?For when the moon is small and thin,And night is fragrant on the land,The earth and I are so akinI think no Saint could understand.Something within me sleeps by day;To moon and wind its petals part....It is not for my soul I pray;Ah Virgin!—for my untried heart.
ALWAYSof Heaven the Sisters tell,Although of earth I question most—I would I knew the world as wellAs Peter and the Angel host!José may journey, never I.In all the lonely hours I spendHe bids me tell my beads and sigh....I wonder if the Saints attend?For when the moon is small and thin,And night is fragrant on the land,The earth and I are so akinI think no Saint could understand.Something within me sleeps by day;To moon and wind its petals part....It is not for my soul I pray;Ah Virgin!—for my untried heart.
ALWAYSof Heaven the Sisters tell,Although of earth I question most—I would I knew the world as wellAs Peter and the Angel host!
José may journey, never I.In all the lonely hours I spendHe bids me tell my beads and sigh....I wonder if the Saints attend?
For when the moon is small and thin,And night is fragrant on the land,The earth and I are so akinI think no Saint could understand.
Something within me sleeps by day;To moon and wind its petals part....It is not for my soul I pray;Ah Virgin!—for my untried heart.
This weak and silken love that meshes meBreak strand from strand, O branches of the hill!Brave wind that whips me breathless, tear me free!The witch’s cobweb clings and shivers still.Now ferns there were, and fretted sun above:I plunged me where the silver water fell,But could not drown the little singing love—The little love that murmured like a shell.Swift, swift, to drink my freedom at its flood,I ran with flying feet and lips apart,But love was wilder than my leaping blood—Ah, louder than the beating of my heart.
This weak and silken love that meshes meBreak strand from strand, O branches of the hill!Brave wind that whips me breathless, tear me free!The witch’s cobweb clings and shivers still.Now ferns there were, and fretted sun above:I plunged me where the silver water fell,But could not drown the little singing love—The little love that murmured like a shell.Swift, swift, to drink my freedom at its flood,I ran with flying feet and lips apart,But love was wilder than my leaping blood—Ah, louder than the beating of my heart.
This weak and silken love that meshes meBreak strand from strand, O branches of the hill!Brave wind that whips me breathless, tear me free!The witch’s cobweb clings and shivers still.
Now ferns there were, and fretted sun above:I plunged me where the silver water fell,But could not drown the little singing love—The little love that murmured like a shell.
Swift, swift, to drink my freedom at its flood,I ran with flying feet and lips apart,But love was wilder than my leaping blood—Ah, louder than the beating of my heart.
IMUSTnot yield ... but if he would not sing!My stilling hands upon my breast can feelIts answer tremble like a muted string.Below the vaulted window where I kneel.He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies.A white and haunted place my garden seems.—I see the pleading beauty of his eyesAs faces glimmer in a pool of dreams.So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake.(Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!)I must not yield ... I think my heart will break.Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing!
IMUSTnot yield ... but if he would not sing!My stilling hands upon my breast can feelIts answer tremble like a muted string.Below the vaulted window where I kneel.He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies.A white and haunted place my garden seems.—I see the pleading beauty of his eyesAs faces glimmer in a pool of dreams.So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake.(Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!)I must not yield ... I think my heart will break.Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing!
IMUSTnot yield ... but if he would not sing!My stilling hands upon my breast can feelIts answer tremble like a muted string.Below the vaulted window where I kneel.
He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies.A white and haunted place my garden seems.—I see the pleading beauty of his eyesAs faces glimmer in a pool of dreams.
So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake.(Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!)I must not yield ... I think my heart will break.Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing!
NOWbending like a windy stem I strive,Yet ever onward, step by step, descend.The silence is a threat, the dark alive,And love how far, how far, my journey’s end.It is the girlhood dream I leave behind,And sweeter vision never witched a maid.Into the threatening shades I wander blind:Ah, Mary, help me now! I am afraid.Yet with my fears I sway and follow still;The doorway gleams, the pleading magic charms,Step after step, with fluttering breath and will—Step after step ... at last ... into his arms.
NOWbending like a windy stem I strive,Yet ever onward, step by step, descend.The silence is a threat, the dark alive,And love how far, how far, my journey’s end.It is the girlhood dream I leave behind,And sweeter vision never witched a maid.Into the threatening shades I wander blind:Ah, Mary, help me now! I am afraid.Yet with my fears I sway and follow still;The doorway gleams, the pleading magic charms,Step after step, with fluttering breath and will—Step after step ... at last ... into his arms.
NOWbending like a windy stem I strive,Yet ever onward, step by step, descend.The silence is a threat, the dark alive,And love how far, how far, my journey’s end.
It is the girlhood dream I leave behind,And sweeter vision never witched a maid.Into the threatening shades I wander blind:Ah, Mary, help me now! I am afraid.
Yet with my fears I sway and follow still;The doorway gleams, the pleading magic charms,Step after step, with fluttering breath and will—Step after step ... at last ... into his arms.
BEYONDthis purple shadow glowsMy golden garden loud with bees,And windy grey and silver flowsAlong the slopes of olive trees.Before a sleeping flower uncurled,Before the early winds were born,I woke for joy in such a world,And with the linnets shared the morn.Remembering love, I woke and smiled,And heard the morning linnets sing,And sang for love, and they for wildDelight of song and sun and spring.
BEYONDthis purple shadow glowsMy golden garden loud with bees,And windy grey and silver flowsAlong the slopes of olive trees.Before a sleeping flower uncurled,Before the early winds were born,I woke for joy in such a world,And with the linnets shared the morn.Remembering love, I woke and smiled,And heard the morning linnets sing,And sang for love, and they for wildDelight of song and sun and spring.
BEYONDthis purple shadow glowsMy golden garden loud with bees,And windy grey and silver flowsAlong the slopes of olive trees.
Before a sleeping flower uncurled,Before the early winds were born,I woke for joy in such a world,And with the linnets shared the morn.
Remembering love, I woke and smiled,And heard the morning linnets sing,And sang for love, and they for wildDelight of song and sun and spring.
SURELYa brightness moves with me,For José gazes long and sighs,Above the pages dim to seeFor ghosts of youth that brush his eyes.And gazing long, old Marta said:“Some new device has made thee fair,Yet have I often seen these redPomegranate flowers against thy hair.”I would not have them understandThe hidden thoughts that give me grace,Nor guess the lights that dreams have fanned,And read their shining in my face.But all my heart the Virgin knows.Before her eyes, so wise they were,I laid my secret like a rose:“Mother, I love!” I cried to her.
SURELYa brightness moves with me,For José gazes long and sighs,Above the pages dim to seeFor ghosts of youth that brush his eyes.And gazing long, old Marta said:“Some new device has made thee fair,Yet have I often seen these redPomegranate flowers against thy hair.”I would not have them understandThe hidden thoughts that give me grace,Nor guess the lights that dreams have fanned,And read their shining in my face.But all my heart the Virgin knows.Before her eyes, so wise they were,I laid my secret like a rose:“Mother, I love!” I cried to her.
SURELYa brightness moves with me,For José gazes long and sighs,Above the pages dim to seeFor ghosts of youth that brush his eyes.
And gazing long, old Marta said:“Some new device has made thee fair,Yet have I often seen these redPomegranate flowers against thy hair.”
I would not have them understandThe hidden thoughts that give me grace,Nor guess the lights that dreams have fanned,And read their shining in my face.
But all my heart the Virgin knows.Before her eyes, so wise they were,I laid my secret like a rose:“Mother, I love!” I cried to her.
IHADno more imagined loveThan dreams the moonflower of its blue.What sun that warmed its shielding glove,—What long blind eve that gave it dew,Could tell that hueless folded thingOf shining texture silken-loomed,Or say what marveling birds would singThe morning that it thrilled and bloomed?Always it knew in groping thoughtSome end would come, some bloom must be,The blind fulfilment that it wroughtWas strained from darkness restlessly;Till exquisite completion willedThe answered bud, the dream put by,And left the flower all sunned, and stilledWith sudden wonder of the sky.
IHADno more imagined loveThan dreams the moonflower of its blue.What sun that warmed its shielding glove,—What long blind eve that gave it dew,Could tell that hueless folded thingOf shining texture silken-loomed,Or say what marveling birds would singThe morning that it thrilled and bloomed?Always it knew in groping thoughtSome end would come, some bloom must be,The blind fulfilment that it wroughtWas strained from darkness restlessly;Till exquisite completion willedThe answered bud, the dream put by,And left the flower all sunned, and stilledWith sudden wonder of the sky.
IHADno more imagined loveThan dreams the moonflower of its blue.What sun that warmed its shielding glove,—What long blind eve that gave it dew,
Could tell that hueless folded thingOf shining texture silken-loomed,Or say what marveling birds would singThe morning that it thrilled and bloomed?
Always it knew in groping thoughtSome end would come, some bloom must be,The blind fulfilment that it wroughtWas strained from darkness restlessly;
Till exquisite completion willedThe answered bud, the dream put by,And left the flower all sunned, and stilledWith sudden wonder of the sky.
MYeyes are level with the grass,And up and down each slender steepI watch its tiny people pass.The sun has lulled me half asleep.And all beneath my breath I sing ...This joy of mine is sweet to hold!Such treasure had the miser kingWho brushed the very dew to gold.Deep in the sunny grass I lieAnd breathe the garden scents wind-driven,So happy that if I should dieThey could not comfort me with Heaven.
MYeyes are level with the grass,And up and down each slender steepI watch its tiny people pass.The sun has lulled me half asleep.And all beneath my breath I sing ...This joy of mine is sweet to hold!Such treasure had the miser kingWho brushed the very dew to gold.Deep in the sunny grass I lieAnd breathe the garden scents wind-driven,So happy that if I should dieThey could not comfort me with Heaven.
MYeyes are level with the grass,And up and down each slender steepI watch its tiny people pass.The sun has lulled me half asleep.
And all beneath my breath I sing ...This joy of mine is sweet to hold!Such treasure had the miser kingWho brushed the very dew to gold.
Deep in the sunny grass I lieAnd breathe the garden scents wind-driven,So happy that if I should dieThey could not comfort me with Heaven.
ONEtime I felt the sun in all my veins,And bloomed on crystal mornings, flower-wise,And mourned as roses sadden in long rains.What pain is this the summer noon denies?One time the hands of wind upon my hairCould heal me like a mother’s touch and kiss.When I could give my airy griefs to airI never knew so sharp a thorn as this.The joy of flower and wind and sighing bough—It comes not back again for tears and rue.A year agone I had not sought as now,And found the sky a vault of empty blue.
ONEtime I felt the sun in all my veins,And bloomed on crystal mornings, flower-wise,And mourned as roses sadden in long rains.What pain is this the summer noon denies?One time the hands of wind upon my hairCould heal me like a mother’s touch and kiss.When I could give my airy griefs to airI never knew so sharp a thorn as this.The joy of flower and wind and sighing bough—It comes not back again for tears and rue.A year agone I had not sought as now,And found the sky a vault of empty blue.
ONEtime I felt the sun in all my veins,And bloomed on crystal mornings, flower-wise,And mourned as roses sadden in long rains.What pain is this the summer noon denies?
One time the hands of wind upon my hairCould heal me like a mother’s touch and kiss.When I could give my airy griefs to airI never knew so sharp a thorn as this.
The joy of flower and wind and sighing bough—It comes not back again for tears and rue.A year agone I had not sought as now,And found the sky a vault of empty blue.
HEloves no more. Upon the failing streamsThe summer burns—so burns another flame:I see his eyes alight with alien dreams ...That long-forgotten country whence he came.Calls to him past my words; beyond my eyesLost waters shine, remembered sunsets die.Ay, in my kiss another mouth replies,And speaks of kisses past, of lips put by.Now this my heart divines, for words of loveHe gives me still (O woeful heart and bruisedTo still complain!).... But surely, when I moveHis eyes will never follow as they used.
HEloves no more. Upon the failing streamsThe summer burns—so burns another flame:I see his eyes alight with alien dreams ...That long-forgotten country whence he came.Calls to him past my words; beyond my eyesLost waters shine, remembered sunsets die.Ay, in my kiss another mouth replies,And speaks of kisses past, of lips put by.Now this my heart divines, for words of loveHe gives me still (O woeful heart and bruisedTo still complain!).... But surely, when I moveHis eyes will never follow as they used.
HEloves no more. Upon the failing streamsThe summer burns—so burns another flame:I see his eyes alight with alien dreams ...That long-forgotten country whence he came.
Calls to him past my words; beyond my eyesLost waters shine, remembered sunsets die.Ay, in my kiss another mouth replies,And speaks of kisses past, of lips put by.
Now this my heart divines, for words of loveHe gives me still (O woeful heart and bruisedTo still complain!).... But surely, when I moveHis eyes will never follow as they used.
THEsoul that made love exquisite is gone,It is not that the word, the kiss, is changed.I cannot say, “Here was his thought withdrawn;So once was love, so now is love estranged.”But all of love that I could touch and knowI held as one a lamp that makes his day,And touch it still, and see its flame burn low,Its shining figures fade to painted clay.Ah, I would hold the semblance, keep the kiss;But watching in its heart the paling spark,I cry out when the shadows menace this,As children weep for terror of the dark.
THEsoul that made love exquisite is gone,It is not that the word, the kiss, is changed.I cannot say, “Here was his thought withdrawn;So once was love, so now is love estranged.”But all of love that I could touch and knowI held as one a lamp that makes his day,And touch it still, and see its flame burn low,Its shining figures fade to painted clay.Ah, I would hold the semblance, keep the kiss;But watching in its heart the paling spark,I cry out when the shadows menace this,As children weep for terror of the dark.
THEsoul that made love exquisite is gone,It is not that the word, the kiss, is changed.I cannot say, “Here was his thought withdrawn;So once was love, so now is love estranged.”
But all of love that I could touch and knowI held as one a lamp that makes his day,And touch it still, and see its flame burn low,Its shining figures fade to painted clay.
Ah, I would hold the semblance, keep the kiss;But watching in its heart the paling spark,I cry out when the shadows menace this,As children weep for terror of the dark.
THATall tomorrows have no wound in storeFor shrinking Joy, nor any prick of dread,I know, who closed its eyes forevermore,And keep this night a vigil with my dead.This little space my out-thrown hands have stirredIs happy earth, for once it knew love’s feet;Here once love stood and called the heart that heard,And all the garden, all the world, grew sweet.I lay my joy within this hollowed space(I had not thought so blithe a thing could die!)And heap the happy earth upon the faceThat has no will to smile nor breath to sigh.With dew beneath and hushing night aboveI cannot tell how long my grief has lain—Virgin, I will not plead you for my love,Only the pain,—if you would ease the pain.
THATall tomorrows have no wound in storeFor shrinking Joy, nor any prick of dread,I know, who closed its eyes forevermore,And keep this night a vigil with my dead.This little space my out-thrown hands have stirredIs happy earth, for once it knew love’s feet;Here once love stood and called the heart that heard,And all the garden, all the world, grew sweet.I lay my joy within this hollowed space(I had not thought so blithe a thing could die!)And heap the happy earth upon the faceThat has no will to smile nor breath to sigh.With dew beneath and hushing night aboveI cannot tell how long my grief has lain—Virgin, I will not plead you for my love,Only the pain,—if you would ease the pain.
THATall tomorrows have no wound in storeFor shrinking Joy, nor any prick of dread,I know, who closed its eyes forevermore,And keep this night a vigil with my dead.
This little space my out-thrown hands have stirredIs happy earth, for once it knew love’s feet;Here once love stood and called the heart that heard,And all the garden, all the world, grew sweet.
I lay my joy within this hollowed space(I had not thought so blithe a thing could die!)And heap the happy earth upon the faceThat has no will to smile nor breath to sigh.
With dew beneath and hushing night aboveI cannot tell how long my grief has lain—Virgin, I will not plead you for my love,Only the pain,—if you would ease the pain.
THEworld below was deep in stormy cloud;But high in sun we flew along the ledge,And to the strength I rode I cried aloudAnd spurred it near against the trembling edge.(I rode Ramon along the mountain wall.Today he had no wilder mood than I—No wilder will for lawless wind to callUpon the narrow trail that meets the sky.)The sharp air flowed like water through my hands.Heart, how I skirted death and laughed at pain!Forgotten pain in half-remembered landsBelow me in the valleys with the rain.
THEworld below was deep in stormy cloud;But high in sun we flew along the ledge,And to the strength I rode I cried aloudAnd spurred it near against the trembling edge.(I rode Ramon along the mountain wall.Today he had no wilder mood than I—No wilder will for lawless wind to callUpon the narrow trail that meets the sky.)The sharp air flowed like water through my hands.Heart, how I skirted death and laughed at pain!Forgotten pain in half-remembered landsBelow me in the valleys with the rain.
THEworld below was deep in stormy cloud;But high in sun we flew along the ledge,And to the strength I rode I cried aloudAnd spurred it near against the trembling edge.
(I rode Ramon along the mountain wall.Today he had no wilder mood than I—No wilder will for lawless wind to callUpon the narrow trail that meets the sky.)
The sharp air flowed like water through my hands.Heart, how I skirted death and laughed at pain!Forgotten pain in half-remembered landsBelow me in the valleys with the rain.
WHATalters with my changing? Not José,Content in little duties that he loves.Not Marta’s dimming eyes that stare awayBeyond the tranquil court, the circling doves.I, too, I float on peace, forget almost,And then as drowning sight may pierce the seaTo find the sun a green and wavering ghost,And shapes of earth distorted monstrously,—I see a mocking earth, a sun distraught,I lose the buoying instant of reliefAnd sink again as wearying soul and thoughtDrown in the sick amazement of my grief.
WHATalters with my changing? Not José,Content in little duties that he loves.Not Marta’s dimming eyes that stare awayBeyond the tranquil court, the circling doves.I, too, I float on peace, forget almost,And then as drowning sight may pierce the seaTo find the sun a green and wavering ghost,And shapes of earth distorted monstrously,—I see a mocking earth, a sun distraught,I lose the buoying instant of reliefAnd sink again as wearying soul and thoughtDrown in the sick amazement of my grief.
WHATalters with my changing? Not José,Content in little duties that he loves.Not Marta’s dimming eyes that stare awayBeyond the tranquil court, the circling doves.
I, too, I float on peace, forget almost,And then as drowning sight may pierce the seaTo find the sun a green and wavering ghost,And shapes of earth distorted monstrously,—
I see a mocking earth, a sun distraught,I lose the buoying instant of reliefAnd sink again as wearying soul and thoughtDrown in the sick amazement of my grief.
ITILTmy hollowed life and look within:The wine it held has left a purple trace—Behold, a stain where happiness had been.If I should shatter down this empty vase,Through what abysses would my soul be tossedTo meet its judge in undiscovered lands?What sentence meted me, alone and lost,Before him with the fragments in my hands?Better the patient earth that loves me stillShould drip her clearness on this purple stain;Better my life upheld to her should fillWith limpid dew, and gradual gift of rain.
ITILTmy hollowed life and look within:The wine it held has left a purple trace—Behold, a stain where happiness had been.If I should shatter down this empty vase,Through what abysses would my soul be tossedTo meet its judge in undiscovered lands?What sentence meted me, alone and lost,Before him with the fragments in my hands?Better the patient earth that loves me stillShould drip her clearness on this purple stain;Better my life upheld to her should fillWith limpid dew, and gradual gift of rain.
ITILTmy hollowed life and look within:The wine it held has left a purple trace—Behold, a stain where happiness had been.If I should shatter down this empty vase,
Through what abysses would my soul be tossedTo meet its judge in undiscovered lands?What sentence meted me, alone and lost,Before him with the fragments in my hands?
Better the patient earth that loves me stillShould drip her clearness on this purple stain;Better my life upheld to her should fillWith limpid dew, and gradual gift of rain.
SOMEwhim of Marta’s shields me from the night,And fretted that my curtain should be keptClose drawn, and wakeful candles over bright,I welcomed in the quiet moon and slept;Then woke again in fear—the night was old,The witching tide of silver shut away,And Marta’s shaking hand on mine was cold,Her bending face above me strange and grey.“Who sleeps beneath the moon,” she whispered low,“Must pale with her, nor wind nor noon-day skyBe his again whose pulses beat more slow,More faint, till with the waning moon ... they die.”
SOMEwhim of Marta’s shields me from the night,And fretted that my curtain should be keptClose drawn, and wakeful candles over bright,I welcomed in the quiet moon and slept;Then woke again in fear—the night was old,The witching tide of silver shut away,And Marta’s shaking hand on mine was cold,Her bending face above me strange and grey.“Who sleeps beneath the moon,” she whispered low,“Must pale with her, nor wind nor noon-day skyBe his again whose pulses beat more slow,More faint, till with the waning moon ... they die.”
SOMEwhim of Marta’s shields me from the night,And fretted that my curtain should be keptClose drawn, and wakeful candles over bright,I welcomed in the quiet moon and slept;
Then woke again in fear—the night was old,The witching tide of silver shut away,And Marta’s shaking hand on mine was cold,Her bending face above me strange and grey.
“Who sleeps beneath the moon,” she whispered low,“Must pale with her, nor wind nor noon-day skyBe his again whose pulses beat more slow,More faint, till with the waning moon ... they die.”
THE END
THEgarden of Dolores! Here she walkedWhen fretted in the twilight’s pallid spaceThe trees were black and delicate as lace,And palms were etchings, sharp and slender-stalked.Now riots summer in these magic closes,And life is rounded in the frailest spray....Dolores, cold and buried yesterday,Is it thy spirit here among the roses?For restless murmurs through the garden seek;To shadowy caress the flowers unclose;A blossom in the dark magnolia glows—Or leaning pallor of an oval cheek?Upon the dusk is borne a strange long cry,And one quick sob of wind the air has moved.Ah, perfect garden that Dolores loved,Her soul has called to thee ... a far goodbye.
THEgarden of Dolores! Here she walkedWhen fretted in the twilight’s pallid spaceThe trees were black and delicate as lace,And palms were etchings, sharp and slender-stalked.Now riots summer in these magic closes,And life is rounded in the frailest spray....Dolores, cold and buried yesterday,Is it thy spirit here among the roses?For restless murmurs through the garden seek;To shadowy caress the flowers unclose;A blossom in the dark magnolia glows—Or leaning pallor of an oval cheek?Upon the dusk is borne a strange long cry,And one quick sob of wind the air has moved.Ah, perfect garden that Dolores loved,Her soul has called to thee ... a far goodbye.
THEgarden of Dolores! Here she walkedWhen fretted in the twilight’s pallid spaceThe trees were black and delicate as lace,And palms were etchings, sharp and slender-stalked.
Now riots summer in these magic closes,And life is rounded in the frailest spray....Dolores, cold and buried yesterday,Is it thy spirit here among the roses?
For restless murmurs through the garden seek;To shadowy caress the flowers unclose;A blossom in the dark magnolia glows—Or leaning pallor of an oval cheek?
Upon the dusk is borne a strange long cry,And one quick sob of wind the air has moved.Ah, perfect garden that Dolores loved,Her soul has called to thee ... a far goodbye.
THEREis a thread from you to me?I know, I feel it drawing still,A cobweb on my careless thought—Old habit-likeness—what you will.Because it once was strong as FateTo bind a life to your desire,—Because its knots about my heartCould burn me like a witch’s wire,You will not think it loosed. And I(Ah, woman soul that prayed “Destroy!”)Free from the fretting of my pain,Have killed the fitful strength of joy.
THEREis a thread from you to me?I know, I feel it drawing still,A cobweb on my careless thought—Old habit-likeness—what you will.Because it once was strong as FateTo bind a life to your desire,—Because its knots about my heartCould burn me like a witch’s wire,You will not think it loosed. And I(Ah, woman soul that prayed “Destroy!”)Free from the fretting of my pain,Have killed the fitful strength of joy.
THEREis a thread from you to me?I know, I feel it drawing still,A cobweb on my careless thought—Old habit-likeness—what you will.
Because it once was strong as FateTo bind a life to your desire,—Because its knots about my heartCould burn me like a witch’s wire,
You will not think it loosed. And I(Ah, woman soul that prayed “Destroy!”)Free from the fretting of my pain,Have killed the fitful strength of joy.
YOUfound my soul an untried instrument.I closed it fast and bade you take the key,Serene in my unquestioning contentThat you alone could wake the harmony.I gave the key, indifferent though it costFamiliar lightness of unskilful touch,The music to the master. If I lost,He lets the little go who profits much.Ah, then the keen, reluctant knowledge grewThat though the chords were helpless at your willYou had nor wit nor power to sound them true:Discordant they, or else forever still.
YOUfound my soul an untried instrument.I closed it fast and bade you take the key,Serene in my unquestioning contentThat you alone could wake the harmony.I gave the key, indifferent though it costFamiliar lightness of unskilful touch,The music to the master. If I lost,He lets the little go who profits much.Ah, then the keen, reluctant knowledge grewThat though the chords were helpless at your willYou had nor wit nor power to sound them true:Discordant they, or else forever still.
YOUfound my soul an untried instrument.I closed it fast and bade you take the key,Serene in my unquestioning contentThat you alone could wake the harmony.
I gave the key, indifferent though it costFamiliar lightness of unskilful touch,The music to the master. If I lost,He lets the little go who profits much.
Ah, then the keen, reluctant knowledge grewThat though the chords were helpless at your willYou had nor wit nor power to sound them true:Discordant they, or else forever still.
These tawny sheaves, this fragrant land,Two spendthrift kings have found and seized,And Vagabondia may demandIts pockets lined, its troubles eased.We hold or deed as fancy wills.We own the world by right and law—The hidden gold in all the hills,The sweetness in a yellow straw.
These tawny sheaves, this fragrant land,Two spendthrift kings have found and seized,And Vagabondia may demandIts pockets lined, its troubles eased.We hold or deed as fancy wills.We own the world by right and law—The hidden gold in all the hills,The sweetness in a yellow straw.
These tawny sheaves, this fragrant land,Two spendthrift kings have found and seized,And Vagabondia may demandIts pockets lined, its troubles eased.
We hold or deed as fancy wills.We own the world by right and law—The hidden gold in all the hills,The sweetness in a yellow straw.
ITWINEyou, little trellis, close and fond,And swing in wistful threads above, beyond,For air and space to blossom. Be it so.Ah me! I love you, but the plant must grow.I quiver with the call of summer heat,With all the wild sap stirring at my feet.My quiet trellis, impotent to knowThe earth and sun command me: I must grow.You cannot share my ardent life apart,Nor feel the upward straining of my heart.In every vein the urging currents flow,Leaf after leaf unfolds: the plant must grow.
ITWINEyou, little trellis, close and fond,And swing in wistful threads above, beyond,For air and space to blossom. Be it so.Ah me! I love you, but the plant must grow.I quiver with the call of summer heat,With all the wild sap stirring at my feet.My quiet trellis, impotent to knowThe earth and sun command me: I must grow.You cannot share my ardent life apart,Nor feel the upward straining of my heart.In every vein the urging currents flow,Leaf after leaf unfolds: the plant must grow.
ITWINEyou, little trellis, close and fond,And swing in wistful threads above, beyond,For air and space to blossom. Be it so.Ah me! I love you, but the plant must grow.
I quiver with the call of summer heat,With all the wild sap stirring at my feet.My quiet trellis, impotent to knowThe earth and sun command me: I must grow.
You cannot share my ardent life apart,Nor feel the upward straining of my heart.In every vein the urging currents flow,Leaf after leaf unfolds: the plant must grow.
BELOVED, have I turned indeed so cold?My eyes are faithful, grieving with your grief;And if the year itself could grow not old,Could stand at waking sap and budding leaf,An April heart might keep its first unrest,An April love the petals of its spring.When all the birds are silent in my breast,How can I answer when you bid me sing?The autumn hills are brown: you will not see.The saddened woodland speaks, and finds you strange.Ah, dear one, all my world is kin to me,And with the swerving days I change, I change.
BELOVED, have I turned indeed so cold?My eyes are faithful, grieving with your grief;And if the year itself could grow not old,Could stand at waking sap and budding leaf,An April heart might keep its first unrest,An April love the petals of its spring.When all the birds are silent in my breast,How can I answer when you bid me sing?The autumn hills are brown: you will not see.The saddened woodland speaks, and finds you strange.Ah, dear one, all my world is kin to me,And with the swerving days I change, I change.
BELOVED, have I turned indeed so cold?My eyes are faithful, grieving with your grief;And if the year itself could grow not old,Could stand at waking sap and budding leaf,
An April heart might keep its first unrest,An April love the petals of its spring.When all the birds are silent in my breast,How can I answer when you bid me sing?
The autumn hills are brown: you will not see.The saddened woodland speaks, and finds you strange.Ah, dear one, all my world is kin to me,And with the swerving days I change, I change.
THEblue wistaria hangs with bloomThe Place of Memories far away.My heart has ached with it today—The blue wistaria is in bloom.And one may pass so near, so near,With half-remembering eyes and cold,Where quickening with the budding yearIt clusters perfect as of old;And one at sight of wizened sprays,Reluctant in an alien spring,Must feel the sharp, unblunted sting,The pang of unforgotten days.
THEblue wistaria hangs with bloomThe Place of Memories far away.My heart has ached with it today—The blue wistaria is in bloom.And one may pass so near, so near,With half-remembering eyes and cold,Where quickening with the budding yearIt clusters perfect as of old;And one at sight of wizened sprays,Reluctant in an alien spring,Must feel the sharp, unblunted sting,The pang of unforgotten days.
THEblue wistaria hangs with bloomThe Place of Memories far away.My heart has ached with it today—The blue wistaria is in bloom.
And one may pass so near, so near,With half-remembering eyes and cold,Where quickening with the budding yearIt clusters perfect as of old;
And one at sight of wizened sprays,Reluctant in an alien spring,Must feel the sharp, unblunted sting,The pang of unforgotten days.
OH, half way up the hill it was, where one might sit leaf-hidden,And stare across the canyoned depths to distant miles of blue;Upon the little path to it no foot might step unbidden.It was my nook, and mine alone, and not another knew.And when my doll was sawdust, or my little hopes were fated,Or all my world was shaken by a little idol’s fall,Up to my dear retreat I’d climb, with grief or anger weighted,And, hands behind fern-pillowed head, straightway forget it all.With tears yet damp upon my cheeks I’d fall to castle-building(The careless linnets fluttered near a little maid so still),And all the gorgeous tints I knew, and all the wealth of gilding,Were lavished on the future that I summoned there at will.“When one is small the troubles come, and then the tears must follow;When one is small one finds it good to run and cry alone,But I shall laugh to think that once I found my world so hollow—I shall not need this little nook,” I thought, “when I am grown.”Now heart whose voice I drown by day to hear in hours of waking,Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because they may not flow,From sight of face or sound of speech if I could bear your aching,And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago!But oh! the pensive little ghost among her visions sittingWould view her weeping Future with so piteous surprise!No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her dreams unwitting—I could not take my trouble there, I could not meet her eyes.
OH, half way up the hill it was, where one might sit leaf-hidden,And stare across the canyoned depths to distant miles of blue;Upon the little path to it no foot might step unbidden.It was my nook, and mine alone, and not another knew.And when my doll was sawdust, or my little hopes were fated,Or all my world was shaken by a little idol’s fall,Up to my dear retreat I’d climb, with grief or anger weighted,And, hands behind fern-pillowed head, straightway forget it all.With tears yet damp upon my cheeks I’d fall to castle-building(The careless linnets fluttered near a little maid so still),And all the gorgeous tints I knew, and all the wealth of gilding,Were lavished on the future that I summoned there at will.“When one is small the troubles come, and then the tears must follow;When one is small one finds it good to run and cry alone,But I shall laugh to think that once I found my world so hollow—I shall not need this little nook,” I thought, “when I am grown.”Now heart whose voice I drown by day to hear in hours of waking,Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because they may not flow,From sight of face or sound of speech if I could bear your aching,And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago!But oh! the pensive little ghost among her visions sittingWould view her weeping Future with so piteous surprise!No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her dreams unwitting—I could not take my trouble there, I could not meet her eyes.
OH, half way up the hill it was, where one might sit leaf-hidden,And stare across the canyoned depths to distant miles of blue;Upon the little path to it no foot might step unbidden.It was my nook, and mine alone, and not another knew.And when my doll was sawdust, or my little hopes were fated,Or all my world was shaken by a little idol’s fall,Up to my dear retreat I’d climb, with grief or anger weighted,And, hands behind fern-pillowed head, straightway forget it all.With tears yet damp upon my cheeks I’d fall to castle-building(The careless linnets fluttered near a little maid so still),And all the gorgeous tints I knew, and all the wealth of gilding,Were lavished on the future that I summoned there at will.“When one is small the troubles come, and then the tears must follow;When one is small one finds it good to run and cry alone,But I shall laugh to think that once I found my world so hollow—I shall not need this little nook,” I thought, “when I am grown.”
Now heart whose voice I drown by day to hear in hours of waking,Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because they may not flow,From sight of face or sound of speech if I could bear your aching,And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago!But oh! the pensive little ghost among her visions sittingWould view her weeping Future with so piteous surprise!No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her dreams unwitting—I could not take my trouble there, I could not meet her eyes.
NOWevening comes. Now stirs my discontent....Oh, ache of smallest, unforgotten things!How sharp you are when day and dark are blent,When beetles hurry by with vibrant wings,And plaintively and near the cricket sings.The sighing garden calls me from the door;Above the hills a little crescent swings—Above the path where you will come no moreWhen beetles hurry by on vibrant wings,And plaintively and near the cricket sings.
NOWevening comes. Now stirs my discontent....Oh, ache of smallest, unforgotten things!How sharp you are when day and dark are blent,When beetles hurry by with vibrant wings,And plaintively and near the cricket sings.The sighing garden calls me from the door;Above the hills a little crescent swings—Above the path where you will come no moreWhen beetles hurry by on vibrant wings,And plaintively and near the cricket sings.
NOWevening comes. Now stirs my discontent....Oh, ache of smallest, unforgotten things!How sharp you are when day and dark are blent,When beetles hurry by with vibrant wings,And plaintively and near the cricket sings.
The sighing garden calls me from the door;Above the hills a little crescent swings—Above the path where you will come no moreWhen beetles hurry by on vibrant wings,And plaintively and near the cricket sings.