WEST WIND IN WINTER
Another day awakes. And who—
Changing the world—is this?
He comes at whiles, the winter through,
West Wind! I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
Surprises of his kiss.
Vigilant, I make haste to close
With him who comes my way,
I go to meet him as he goes;
I know his note, his lay,
His colour and his morning-rose,
And I confess his day.
My window waits; at dawn I hark
His call; at morn I meet
His haste around the tossing park
And down the softened street;
The gentler light is his: the dark,
The grey—he turns it sweet.
So too, so too, do I confess
My poet when he sings.
He rushes on my mortal guess
With his immortal things.
I feel, I know, him. On I press—
He finds me 'twixt his wings.
THE FOLD
Behold,
The time is now! Bring back, bring back
Thy flocks of fancies, wild of whim.
O lead them from the mountain-track
Thy frolic thoughts untold,
O bring them in—the fields grow dim—
And let me be the fold!
Behold,
The time is now! Call in, O call
Thy pasturing kisses gone astray
For scattered sweets; gather them all
To shelter from the cold.
Throng them together, close and gay,
And let me be the fold!
"WHY WILT THOU CHIDE?"
Why wilt thou chide,
Who has attained to be denied?
O learn, above
All price is my refusal, Love.
My sacred Nay
Was never cheapened by the way.
Thy single sorrow crowns thee lord
Of an unpurchasable word.