No answer but the flourish of the breeze
      Through the black pines.  Then, slowly, as the wind
      Parts the dense cloud-forms, leaving naught behind
    But shapeless vapor, through the budding trees
      Drifted some force unseen, and from my sight
      Faded my god into the morning light.

    Again alone.  With wistful, straining eyes
      I waited, and the sunshine flecked the bank
      Happy with arbutus and violets where I sank
    Hearing, near by, a host of melodies,
      The rapture of the woodthrush; soft her mood
      The love-mate, with such golden numbers woo’d.

    He ceased; the fresh moss-odors filled the grove
      With a strange sweetness, the dark hemlock boughs
      Moved soft, as though they heard the brooklet rouse
    To its spring soul, and whisper low of love. 
      The white-robed birches stood unbendingly
      Like royal maids, in proud expectancy.

    Athwart the ramage where the young leaves press
      It came to me, ah, call it what you will
      Vision or waking dream, I see it still! 
    Again a form born of the woodland stress
      Grew to my gaze, and by some secret sign
      Though shadow-hid, I knew the form was thine.

    The glancing sunlight made thy ruddy hair
      A crown of gold, but on thy spirit-face
      There was no smile, only a tender grace
    Of love half doubt.  Upon thy hand a rare
      Wild bird of Paradise perched fearlessly
      With radiant plumage and still, lustrous eye.

    And as I gazed I saw what I had deemed
      A shadow near thy hand, a dusky wing,
      A bird like last year’s leaves, so dull a thing
    Beside its fellow; as the sunshine gleamed
    Each breast showed letters bright as crystalled rain,
      The fair bird bore “Delight,” the other “Pain.”

    Then came thy voice:  “O Love, wilt have my gift?”
      I stretched my glad hands eagerly to grasp
      The heaven-blown bird, gold-hued, and longed to clasp
    It close and know it mine.  Ere I might lift
      The shining thing and hold it to my breast
      Again I heard thy voice with vague unrest.

    “These are twin birds and may not parted be.” 
      Full in thine eyes I gazed, and read therein
      The paradox of life, of love, of sin,
    As on a night of cloud and mystery
      One darting flash makes bright the hidden ways,
      And feet tread knowingly though thick the haze.

    Thy gift, if so I chose,—­no other hand
      Save thine.—­I reached and gathered to my heart
      The quivering, sentient things.—­Sometimes I start
    To know them hidden there.—­If I should stand
      Idly, some day, and one,—­God help me!—­breast
      A homing breeze,—­my brown bird knows its nest.