The Project Gutenberg eBook ofWillow PollenThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Willow PollenAuthor: Jeannette Augustus MarksRelease date: September 20, 2016 [eBook #53099]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLOW POLLEN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Willow PollenAuthor: Jeannette Augustus MarksRelease date: September 20, 2016 [eBook #53099]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: Willow Pollen
Author: Jeannette Augustus Marks
Author: Jeannette Augustus Marks
Release date: September 20, 2016 [eBook #53099]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLOW POLLEN ***
WILLOW POLLEN
BYJEANNETTE MARKS[Image of the colophon unavailable.]BostonThe Four Seas Company1921Copyright, 1921, byThe Four Seas CompanyThe Four Seas PressBoston, Mass., U. S. A.TOThe Memory ofMy MotherJEANNETTE HOLMES COLWELL MARKS
Many of these poems were first published inAinslee’s,Bellman,Century,Churchman,Contemporary Verse,Everybody’s,Freeman,Forum,Holland’s Magazine,McClure’s,Metropolitan,Nation,New Republic,North American Review,Outlook,Poetry(Chicago),Poetry Journal,The Bookman,Smart Setand other magazines.
Fleur de LysSeptember 27, 1920.
Beautiful she was to look uponAnd beautiful to know,And all who knew her loved her.There was none to whom she was not tender,Compassionate in her word or her silence;There was none of whom she did not think well.In a quiet room, my head upon her breast,Often have I heard her heart beat,Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,And its speech was the speech of many sorrows.But of her own sorrows she spoke not;She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;And her speech was silence,Murmur of wind,Mute spaces of sky,—These were her caresses and her healing,And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,—Not separate.She is gone.Remember her if you will!For me she is still everywhereAnd never to be forgotten!Out of the dawnThe fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;Through the hot dayThe shadow of her presence revolves upon meAs the cool finger on the sun dial;In the afternoonShaken light burns in the memory of her hair;And at eveningAll my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silenceAnd I am come back to my MotherAnd to sleep.
Beautiful she was to look uponAnd beautiful to know,And all who knew her loved her.There was none to whom she was not tender,Compassionate in her word or her silence;There was none of whom she did not think well.In a quiet room, my head upon her breast,Often have I heard her heart beat,Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,And its speech was the speech of many sorrows.But of her own sorrows she spoke not;She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;And her speech was silence,Murmur of wind,Mute spaces of sky,—These were her caresses and her healing,And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,—Not separate.She is gone.Remember her if you will!For me she is still everywhereAnd never to be forgotten!Out of the dawnThe fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;Through the hot dayThe shadow of her presence revolves upon meAs the cool finger on the sun dial;In the afternoonShaken light burns in the memory of her hair;And at eveningAll my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silenceAnd I am come back to my MotherAnd to sleep.
Beautiful she was to look uponAnd beautiful to know,And all who knew her loved her.There was none to whom she was not tender,Compassionate in her word or her silence;There was none of whom she did not think well.
In a quiet room, my head upon her breast,Often have I heard her heart beat,Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,And its speech was the speech of many sorrows.But of her own sorrows she spoke not;She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;And her speech was silence,Murmur of wind,Mute spaces of sky,—These were her caresses and her healing,And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,—Not separate.
She is gone.Remember her if you will!For me she is still everywhereAnd never to be forgotten!Out of the dawnThe fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;Through the hot dayThe shadow of her presence revolves upon meAs the cool finger on the sun dial;In the afternoonShaken light burns in the memory of her hair;And at eveningAll my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silenceAnd I am come back to my MotherAnd to sleep.
The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms,At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes;A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips,Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves.In the willow pollen the bees hum;In the apple bloom the bees hum;Fluttering up like a begging handThe ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf,The thrush its song.O beautiful world, what are you?And who made you?Are you no more than a fragrant dream,A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon,A swaying mirror,Willow pollen,A twirling song,A crumbling leaf?
The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms,At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes;A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips,Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves.In the willow pollen the bees hum;In the apple bloom the bees hum;Fluttering up like a begging handThe ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf,The thrush its song.O beautiful world, what are you?And who made you?Are you no more than a fragrant dream,A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon,A swaying mirror,Willow pollen,A twirling song,A crumbling leaf?
The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms,At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes;A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips,Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves.In the willow pollen the bees hum;In the apple bloom the bees hum;Fluttering up like a begging handThe ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf,The thrush its song.
O beautiful world, what are you?And who made you?Are you no more than a fragrant dream,A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon,A swaying mirror,Willow pollen,A twirling song,A crumbling leaf?
You are the sunshine,I am the sod:Flame to my leaf-mould,And goldenrod.
You are the sunshine,I am the sod:Flame to my leaf-mould,And goldenrod.
You are the sunshine,I am the sod:Flame to my leaf-mould,And goldenrod.
You are the shadow,I am the rock:Coolness of sheep bells,Stilling the flock.
You are the shadow,I am the rock:Coolness of sheep bells,Stilling the flock.
You are the shadow,I am the rock:Coolness of sheep bells,Stilling the flock.
You are the starlight,I am the stream:Trees dripping lustreInto our dream.
You are the starlight,I am the stream:Trees dripping lustreInto our dream.
You are the starlight,I am the stream:Trees dripping lustreInto our dream.
I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,—All the festivals of spring your name has lainNow a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lipIn the rain?I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,—Every step a song, every song a flight home to youWhile the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to dayAnd I pray?I wonder if the heavens know I love you,—Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculateLeading on unto the cross roads where you and ISay goodbye?
I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,—All the festivals of spring your name has lainNow a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lipIn the rain?I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,—Every step a song, every song a flight home to youWhile the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to dayAnd I pray?I wonder if the heavens know I love you,—Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculateLeading on unto the cross roads where you and ISay goodbye?
I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,—All the festivals of spring your name has lainNow a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lipIn the rain?
I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,—Every step a song, every song a flight home to youWhile the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to dayAnd I pray?
I wonder if the heavens know I love you,—Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculateLeading on unto the cross roads where you and ISay goodbye?
Sometimes the sun, like a big beeChoosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,Dreams over my garden,So still the dust shines on his burning wings.And sometimes he swings away towards the evening starTo fill his basket claws with night.Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,Rubs legs together—I saw him do it—And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into roseAnd blood-red columbine,—It’s July then.Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,Scours it with pollen from his backAnd there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,—Then it’s June.At times he scoops the white crest off a waveInto the basket of his claws—I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy—Then zi-ig! He’s back againSpreading some lilies by the sandy path,White with gold dashed on their lipsWhere he clings—the big bee—sucking.I know he’s there because the bells ring so:Seven lilies, then five, then four,I count them on their stems,An octave’s length of melody,A little running song of happiness,—It’s August then.But now he’s quiet.Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting watersCut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him.For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered goldWith which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,Spreading it in marigolds and frost,—It is September then,—October, too.The bee, the big bee, the burning beeBegins and ends in gold.In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,He climbs the sky with fagots on his backTo scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,Flings daffodils along an evening sky,—It’s May then, and April, too.Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee.Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.What if he is a ruby humming bird betimesOr a saffron butterflyOr a gray-hooded moth at dusk!I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon flyAbout my little garden’s pool,But not for long.He has his mysteries.His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.Who would not like the change?...I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,Iknow!
Sometimes the sun, like a big beeChoosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,Dreams over my garden,So still the dust shines on his burning wings.And sometimes he swings away towards the evening starTo fill his basket claws with night.Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,Rubs legs together—I saw him do it—And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into roseAnd blood-red columbine,—It’s July then.Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,Scours it with pollen from his backAnd there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,—Then it’s June.At times he scoops the white crest off a waveInto the basket of his claws—I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy—Then zi-ig! He’s back againSpreading some lilies by the sandy path,White with gold dashed on their lipsWhere he clings—the big bee—sucking.I know he’s there because the bells ring so:Seven lilies, then five, then four,I count them on their stems,An octave’s length of melody,A little running song of happiness,—It’s August then.But now he’s quiet.Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting watersCut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him.For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered goldWith which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,Spreading it in marigolds and frost,—It is September then,—October, too.The bee, the big bee, the burning beeBegins and ends in gold.In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,He climbs the sky with fagots on his backTo scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,Flings daffodils along an evening sky,—It’s May then, and April, too.Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee.Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.What if he is a ruby humming bird betimesOr a saffron butterflyOr a gray-hooded moth at dusk!I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon flyAbout my little garden’s pool,But not for long.He has his mysteries.His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.Who would not like the change?...I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,Iknow!
Sometimes the sun, like a big beeChoosing the flowers he will bring to bloom,Dreams over my garden,So still the dust shines on his burning wings.And sometimes he swings away towards the evening starTo fill his basket claws with night.Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold,Rubs legs together—I saw him do it—And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into roseAnd blood-red columbine,—It’s July then.Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn,Scours it with pollen from his backAnd there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,—Then it’s June.
At times he scoops the white crest off a waveInto the basket of his claws—I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy—Then zi-ig! He’s back againSpreading some lilies by the sandy path,White with gold dashed on their lipsWhere he clings—the big bee—sucking.I know he’s there because the bells ring so:Seven lilies, then five, then four,I count them on their stems,An octave’s length of melody,A little running song of happiness,—It’s August then.
But now he’s quiet.Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields,And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting watersCut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him.For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered goldWith which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks.Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need,Spreading it in marigolds and frost,—It is September then,—October, too.
The bee, the big bee, the burning beeBegins and ends in gold.In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom,He climbs the sky with fagots on his backTo scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils;And when he leaves my garden for his sleep,Flings daffodils along an evening sky,—It’s May then, and April, too.
Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee.Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back.What if he is a ruby humming bird betimesOr a saffron butterflyOr a gray-hooded moth at dusk!
I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon flyAbout my little garden’s pool,But not for long.He has his mysteries.His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold.Who would not like the change?...I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee,Iknow!
I will be like a wild grape vine,I will climb the sun gathering color;Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,Cupped in brown-gold,Dusted with silver.I will cling with my dry stemUntil my stem is strong as brown cedar.Then will I swing from tree to tree,Twisting, turning, blowing,Binding all trees with my tendrils,Embracing them, leaping with them,Woven in and out of them,One!And the wild bee shall love me,And the wild bee shall follow meWith song!And I shall be mad fragrance at duskAnd sweet odor at dawn.And then!—And thenAmong all beloved trees which can resist me!They will yield themselves to meAnd I shall swing over the whole world,—Every forest of earth,Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,Every wilderness,—Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,Beating upon the stars with my gold,Kissing the dawn with my silver,Resting in my brown upon earth,My roots in her, my fruit her being!Wind, Wind,Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,—The wild bee clinging!Wind, Wind,Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,—The wild bee following!Wind, Wind,Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,—The wild bee singing!
I will be like a wild grape vine,I will climb the sun gathering color;Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,Cupped in brown-gold,Dusted with silver.I will cling with my dry stemUntil my stem is strong as brown cedar.Then will I swing from tree to tree,Twisting, turning, blowing,Binding all trees with my tendrils,Embracing them, leaping with them,Woven in and out of them,One!And the wild bee shall love me,And the wild bee shall follow meWith song!And I shall be mad fragrance at duskAnd sweet odor at dawn.And then!—And thenAmong all beloved trees which can resist me!They will yield themselves to meAnd I shall swing over the whole world,—Every forest of earth,Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,Every wilderness,—Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,Beating upon the stars with my gold,Kissing the dawn with my silver,Resting in my brown upon earth,My roots in her, my fruit her being!Wind, Wind,Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,—The wild bee clinging!Wind, Wind,Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,—The wild bee following!Wind, Wind,Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,—The wild bee singing!
I will be like a wild grape vine,I will climb the sun gathering color;Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose,Cupped in brown-gold,Dusted with silver.I will cling with my dry stemUntil my stem is strong as brown cedar.Then will I swing from tree to tree,Twisting, turning, blowing,Binding all trees with my tendrils,Embracing them, leaping with them,Woven in and out of them,One!
And the wild bee shall love me,And the wild bee shall follow meWith song!And I shall be mad fragrance at duskAnd sweet odor at dawn.And then!—And thenAmong all beloved trees which can resist me!They will yield themselves to meAnd I shall swing over the whole world,—Every forest of earth,Every dim place, withdrawn, silent,Every wilderness,—Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose,Beating upon the stars with my gold,Kissing the dawn with my silver,Resting in my brown upon earth,My roots in her, my fruit her being!
Wind, Wind,Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,—The wild bee clinging!Wind, Wind,Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,—The wild bee following!Wind, Wind,Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,—The wild bee singing!
What will you bring today?Nod once if it be grave,Nod thrice if it be gay!Primrose with eyes for night,Sweet-peas with wings for flight,Poppies with cups for dew,Love in the midst of rue:Which nods to me?No, you turn your faces all one wayAgainst the wall,Because a wind from off the seaDraws its chill fingers down your cupsAnd bids your petals fall.You do not nod,You beckon neither once nor thriceTo me, but to the earthThere slips a cover manifoldOf every hue.And from the wall beside the seaCurl mist and myriad broken wings.Such gift you give to me!
What will you bring today?Nod once if it be grave,Nod thrice if it be gay!Primrose with eyes for night,Sweet-peas with wings for flight,Poppies with cups for dew,Love in the midst of rue:Which nods to me?No, you turn your faces all one wayAgainst the wall,Because a wind from off the seaDraws its chill fingers down your cupsAnd bids your petals fall.You do not nod,You beckon neither once nor thriceTo me, but to the earthThere slips a cover manifoldOf every hue.And from the wall beside the seaCurl mist and myriad broken wings.Such gift you give to me!
What will you bring today?Nod once if it be grave,Nod thrice if it be gay!
Primrose with eyes for night,Sweet-peas with wings for flight,Poppies with cups for dew,Love in the midst of rue:Which nods to me?
No, you turn your faces all one wayAgainst the wall,Because a wind from off the seaDraws its chill fingers down your cupsAnd bids your petals fall.
You do not nod,You beckon neither once nor thriceTo me, but to the earthThere slips a cover manifoldOf every hue.
And from the wall beside the seaCurl mist and myriad broken wings.
Such gift you give to me!
When joys were vivid I did sitWithin a golden field,And there I pulled the whitest starsGreen earth can yield.
When joys were vivid I did sitWithin a golden field,And there I pulled the whitest starsGreen earth can yield.
When joys were vivid I did sitWithin a golden field,And there I pulled the whitest starsGreen earth can yield.
For Bethlehem those stars were named,The Lord Christ sat with me;And I was little and I leanedUpon His knee.
For Bethlehem those stars were named,The Lord Christ sat with me;And I was little and I leanedUpon His knee.
For Bethlehem those stars were named,The Lord Christ sat with me;And I was little and I leanedUpon His knee.
Now I am old and joys are gone,Christ in this room I findWho brings from distant BethlehemStars for His blind.
Now I am old and joys are gone,Christ in this room I findWho brings from distant BethlehemStars for His blind.
Now I am old and joys are gone,Christ in this room I findWho brings from distant BethlehemStars for His blind.
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!Fanning the life a man must live,Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,Love and hope that he calleth his,Fear and hurt and a man’s own sinCasting them forth and sucking them in,Green golden door, swing out, swing out!Green golden door, swing in, swing in!Show me the youth that will not die,Tell me the dream that has not waked,Seek me the heart that never ached,Speak me the truth men will not doubt!Green golden door, swing out, swing out!Green golden door, swing in, swing out!Long is the wailing of man’s breath,Short is the wail of death.
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!Fanning the life a man must live,Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,Love and hope that he calleth his,Fear and hurt and a man’s own sinCasting them forth and sucking them in,Green golden door, swing out, swing out!Green golden door, swing in, swing in!Show me the youth that will not die,Tell me the dream that has not waked,Seek me the heart that never ached,Speak me the truth men will not doubt!Green golden door, swing out, swing out!Green golden door, swing in, swing out!Long is the wailing of man’s breath,Short is the wail of death.
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!Fanning the life a man must live,Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,Love and hope that he calleth his,Fear and hurt and a man’s own sinCasting them forth and sucking them in,Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!Show me the youth that will not die,Tell me the dream that has not waked,Seek me the heart that never ached,Speak me the truth men will not doubt!Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing out!Long is the wailing of man’s breath,Short is the wail of death.
Dear and Unknown,So you shower white porcelain with roses for me,Red roses, white roses, roses of rose,Clipping their stems,Spreading them out in the bowlTill the green leaves net the white water with silver,Glisten with light,Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves,With the breath of their draught of cool water,With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water,Safe in the shadow of night,Tasting the gift of new life.
Dear and Unknown,So you shower white porcelain with roses for me,Red roses, white roses, roses of rose,Clipping their stems,Spreading them out in the bowlTill the green leaves net the white water with silver,Glisten with light,Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves,With the breath of their draught of cool water,With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water,Safe in the shadow of night,Tasting the gift of new life.
Dear and Unknown,So you shower white porcelain with roses for me,Red roses, white roses, roses of rose,Clipping their stems,Spreading them out in the bowlTill the green leaves net the white water with silver,Glisten with light,Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves,With the breath of their draught of cool water,With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water,Safe in the shadow of night,Tasting the gift of new life.
Once beauty was bread unto me.But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.Did God give me love?What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?What leaf?In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?Oh, now, what are roses to me,Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?What petals blow on this journey I go?
Once beauty was bread unto me.But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.Did God give me love?What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?What leaf?In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?Oh, now, what are roses to me,Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?What petals blow on this journey I go?
Once beauty was bread unto me.But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.Did God give me love?What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?What leaf?In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?Oh, now, what are roses to me,Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?What petals blow on this journey I go?
Dear, my Unknown,Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,Once bread unto me;Rain them on pulses that beat,Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;Feed them, I pray you,—Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,—To men who still hunger for bread!
Dear, my Unknown,Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,Once bread unto me;Rain them on pulses that beat,Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;Feed them, I pray you,—Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,—To men who still hunger for bread!
Dear, my Unknown,Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,Once bread unto me;Rain them on pulses that beat,Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;Feed them, I pray you,—Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,—To men who still hunger for bread!
Someday I shall be a leafA shining green leaf, fan-folded,One of many opening in a sunlit wind;Or I shall be a bit of bark,Say on the Poverty Birch—Since I am obscure and poor and short of lifeAnd my work of no account to commerce—,And I shall flutter there in the wind,My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skinAnd cross-hatched with lines of color;Or—but I do not know what I shall beAnd it does not matter.God has made so much that alters beautiful:The jigging shadows of treesThrough which thoughts pass to that which does not change;The wind that tramps eternity;The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loamAnd tosses into space the spinning stars.
Someday I shall be a leafA shining green leaf, fan-folded,One of many opening in a sunlit wind;Or I shall be a bit of bark,Say on the Poverty Birch—Since I am obscure and poor and short of lifeAnd my work of no account to commerce—,And I shall flutter there in the wind,My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skinAnd cross-hatched with lines of color;Or—but I do not know what I shall beAnd it does not matter.God has made so much that alters beautiful:The jigging shadows of treesThrough which thoughts pass to that which does not change;The wind that tramps eternity;The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loamAnd tosses into space the spinning stars.
Someday I shall be a leafA shining green leaf, fan-folded,One of many opening in a sunlit wind;Or I shall be a bit of bark,Say on the Poverty Birch—Since I am obscure and poor and short of lifeAnd my work of no account to commerce—,And I shall flutter there in the wind,My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skinAnd cross-hatched with lines of color;Or—but I do not know what I shall beAnd it does not matter.God has made so much that alters beautiful:The jigging shadows of treesThrough which thoughts pass to that which does not change;The wind that tramps eternity;The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loamAnd tosses into space the spinning stars.