But often in the chamber of my mind,
The righteous rise and leave, their counsels done,
And there is counsel of another kind,—
The room turns tavern, and there enters one
I pledge as kinsman in a reeling toast,
Still unregenerate and delightful ghost.
INTIMATION
Here where the sunlight makes more strangely fair
Each shining street, each steeple where it stands,
Something like Spring is blowing down the air,
Touching the Town with light, transforming hands.
Half-shy and hesitant, a Something stays
One trembling instant where the sun is sweet,—
A quickening presence on these winter ways,
Haunting and swift—and gone on shining feet.
Yet, there was hint of coming daffodils,
And slender spears uprising on the lawn,
And apple-blossoms on the April hills ...
Only the timid prophetess was gone,
Leaving a faith as gallant as the grass,
How that these things would surely come to pass.
ON A DEAD MOTH
Who knows what trouble trembled in that throat,
What sweet distraction for the summer moon,
That lured you out, a frail, careering boat,
Across the midnight's purple, deep lagoon!
Some fire of madness lit that tiny brain,
Some soft propulsion clouded through your breast,
And lifted you, a white and moving stain
Against the dark of that disastrous quest.