Cosmos

The tiny thing of painted gauze that flutters in the sun
And sinks upon the breast of night with all its living done;

The unconsidered seed that from the garden blows away,
Blooming its little time to bloom in one short summer day;

The leaf the idle wind shakes down in autumn from the tree,
The grasshopper who for an hour makes gayest minstrelsy—­

These—­and this restless soul of mine—­are one with flaming spheres
And cold, dead moons whose ghostly fires haunt unremembered years.

The Secret

If I should tell you what I know
Of where the first primroses grow,
  Betray the secrets of the lily,
  Bring crocus-gold and daffodilly,
Would you tell me if charm there be
  To win a maiden, willy-nilly?

I lie upon the fragrant heath,
Kin to the beating heart beneath;
  The nesting plover I discover
  Nor stir the scented screen above her,
Yet am I blind—­I cannot find
  What turns a maiden to her lover!

Through all the mysteries of May,
Initiate, I take my way—­
  Sure as the blithest lark or linnet
  To touch the pulsing soul within it—­
Yet with no art to reach Her heart,
  Nor skill to teach me how to win it!

I Watch Swift Pictures

I WATCH swift pictures flash and fade On the closed curtains of my eyes,—­ A bit of river green as jade Under green skies;

A single bird that soars and dips
  Remote; a young and secret moon
Stealing to kiss some flower’s lips
  Too shy for noon;

A pointing tree; a lifted hill,
  Sun-misted with a golden ring,—­
Were these once mine?  And am I still
  Remembering?

A path that wanders wistfully
  With no beginning there nor here,
Nor special grace that it should be
  So sharply dear,

Unless,—­what if when every day
  Is yesterday, with naught to borrow,
I may slip down this wistful way
  Into to-morrow?

Fear

I heard a sound of crying in the lane,
  A passionless, low crying,
And I said, “It is the tears of the brown rain
  On the leaves within the lane!”

I heard a sudden sighing at the door,
  A soft, persuasive sighing,
And I said, “The summer breeze has sighed before,
  Gustily, outside the door!”

Yet from the place I fled, nor came again,
  With my heart beating, beating! 
For I knew ’twas not the breeze nor the brown rain
  At the door and in the lane!

Resurrection

I buried Joy; and early to the tomb
I came to weep—­so sorrowful was I
Who had not dreamed that Joy, my Joy, could die.