The waters sooner than the sky;
And if they kiss and die
God made them frail to break.
ON A LADY SINGING
She bade us listen to the singing lark
In tones far sweeter than its own:
For fear that she should cease and leave us dark
We built the bird a feignèd throne,
Shrined in her gracious glory-giving ways
From sceptred hands of starred humility—