LXV
Softly the wind moves through the radiant morning,
And the warm sunlight sinks into the valley,
Filling the green earth with a quiet joyance,
Strength, and fulfilment.
Even so, gentle, strong and wise and happy, 5
Through the soul and substance of my being,
Comes the breath of thy great love to me-ward,
O thou dear mortal.
LXVI
What the west wind whispers
At the end of summer,
When the barley harvest
Ripens to the sickle,
Who can tell? 5
What means the fine music
Of the dry cicada,
Through the long noon hours
Of the autumn stillness,
Who can say? 10
How the grape ungathered
With its bloom of blueness
Greatens on the trellis
Of the brick-walled garden,
Who can know? 15
Yet I, too, am greatened,
Keep the note of gladness,
Travel by the wind’s road,
Through this autumn leisure,—
By thy love. 20
LXVII
Indoors the fire is kindled;
Beechwood is piled on the hearthstone;
Cold are the chattering oak-leaves;
And the ponds frost-bitten.