AN OCTOBER SUNSET

One moment, the slim cloudflakes seem to lean
With their sad sunward faces aureoled,
And longing lips set downward brightening
To take the last sweet hand kiss of the king,
Gone down beyond the closing west acold;
Paying no reverence to the slender queen,
That like a curved olive leaf of gold
Hangs low in heaven, rounded toward sun,
Or the small stars that one by one unfold
Down the gray border of the night begun.

THE FROGS

I

Breathers of wisdom won without a quest,
  Quaint uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange,
  Flutists of land where beauty hath no change,
And wintery grief is a forgotten guest,
Sweet murmurers of everlasting rest,
  For whom glad days have ever yet to run,
  And moments are as aeons, and the sun
But ever sunken half-way toward the west.

Often to me who heard you in your day,
  With close wrapt ears, it could not choose but seem
That earth, our mother, searching in that way,
  Men’s hearts might know her spirit’s inmost dream,
    Ever at rest beneath life’s change and stir,
    Made you her soul, and bade you pipe for her.

II

In those mute days when spring was in her glee,
  And hope was strong, we know not why or how,
  And earthy, the mother, dreamed with brooding brow. 
Musing on life, and what the hours might be,
When loves should ripen to maternity,
  Then like high flutes in silvery interchange
  Ye piped with voices still and sweet and strange,
And ever as ye piped, on every tree

The great buds swelled; among the pensive woods
  The spirits of first flowers awoke and flung
From buried faces the close fitting hoods,
  And listened to your pining till they fell,
  The frail spring-beauty with her perfumed bell,
The wind-flower, and the spotted adder-tongue.

III

All the day long, wherever pools might be
  Among the golden meadows, where the air
  Stood in a dream, as it were moored there
Forever in a noon-tide reverie,
Or where the bird made riot of their glee
  In the still woods, and the hot sun shone down,
  Crossed with warm lucent shadows on the brown
Leaf-paven pools, that bubbled dreamily,

Or far away in whispering river meads
  And watery marshes where the brooding noon,
  Full with the wonder of its own secret boon,
Nestled and slept among the noiseless reeds,
  Ye sat and murmured, motionless as they,
  With eyes that dreamed beyond the night and day.

IV

And when day passed and over heaven’s height,
  Thin with the many stars and cool with dew,
  The fingers of the deep hours slowly drew
The wonder of the ever-healing night,
No grief or loneliness or wrapt delight
  Or weight of silence ever brought to you
  Slumber or rest; only your voices grew
More high and solemn; slowly with hushed flight