I lie upon the fragrant heath,
Kin to the beating heart beneath;
The nesting plover I discover
Nor stir the scented screen above her,
Yet am I blind—I cannot find
What turns a maiden to her lover!
Through all the mysteries of May,
Initiate, I take my way—
Sure as the blithest lark or linnet
To touch the pulsing soul within it—
Yet with no art to reach Her heart,
Nor skill to teach me how to win it!
I Watch Swift Pictures
I WATCH swift pictures flash and fade
On the closed curtains of my eyes,—
A bit of river green as jade
Under green skies;
A single bird that soars and dips
Remote; a young and secret moon
Stealing to kiss some flower’s lips
Too shy for noon;
A pointing tree; a lifted hill,
Sun-misted with a golden ring,—
Were these once mine? And am I still
Remembering?
A path that wanders wistfully
With no beginning there nor here,
Nor special grace that it should be
So sharply dear,
Unless,—what if when every day
Is yesterday, with naught to borrow,
I may slip down this wistful way
Into to-morrow?
Fear
I HEARD a sound of crying in the lane,
A passionless, low crying,
And I said, “It is the tears of the brown rain
On the leaves within the lane!”