THE POOL
My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass, And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold: So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas! It holds but visions, unsubstantial things. Transient, momentary; and the feet Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole. Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.
NOON
TO ANITA FOCKE
Charmed into silence lay The forest, dimly lit; No wind that summer day Moved the least leaf of it;
No choric branches stirred Its calm profound and deep, Nor voice of any bird, But silence dreamed like sleep.
Like dew upon the grass It fell upon my soul, Loosed it to soar, and pass Beyond the stars' control.
Vague memories it woke, Shapes far too frail for touch; And then the silence broke, Lest I should learn too much.