And still, they say, on sullen nights of rain,
A passer-by may hear, beyond the door,
An old accounting for this ugly stain
That makes an evil pattern on the floor—
A sound of dice—an oath—a crashing chair ...
And sudden, grievous silence fallen there.
PRONE
Here where these grasses thrust between my fingers,
And where the earth against my palms is cool,
The hot day dies ... and only late light lingers
Above the shadowed valley's misty pool.
The trees have bent above me like tall lovers,
The stars return their slow, familiar way,
And a great, stirless quiet comes and covers
The traveller resting at the end of day.
I think this body, with its foolish fears,
May grow less foolish and less fearful so,
Learning that at the end of wandering years,
Waits but this house that it has come to know,
Familiar in its sleepy-hearted mirth,
The cool and kind and hospitable earth.
REVIVAL
This body, gathering slumber as it goes,
Will come too full of sleep for wandering,
And so lie down,—and yet it somehow knows
It never could be careless of the Spring;
But turning with the happy-minded earth,
When straying Aprils stir the sentient mould,
It still will know these festivals of mirth,
These subtle sorceries of green and gold.