Aye, would for thee that,—even as the dove
Whose silver wings have o’er waste places passed,
When in the lonely west the evening burns,
Her unforgetful breast a-throb with love,
To her own pillared porch of flight returns,—
On the old hills might Israel rest at last!
ON READING THE POEMS OF EDITH THOMAS.
Then will I, tasting, say—
This is arbutus’ gift,