XIII
The Ribbon
Ah, dearest, dearest, not alone
I face the day’s white monotone.
The fair, bright ribbon of the hours—
A mountain brook bestead through flowers—
Runs, a dear line, from you to you.
There is no smallest deed I do
Through which the ribbon does not run,
A silver string to pearls of sun.
So glad I watch the moments fly
Across the high-hung summer sky,
Till in a radiant flame they burn,
To mark the hour of your return.
XIV
The Aster
The little vagrant gypsy flower
Has blossomed forth again—
Your face against the autumn sky,
Your face against the rain.