II
Love, heed the clap of little hands,
Of leaves upon my trees;
And hear the travelling of the wind,
The moving of the seas;
Then wait awhile, be still.
III
If you would know my mother-heart,
But watch the wasting day!
The wind steps softly in the corn,
The light slips to the hill;
Love, wait awhile, be still.
INDIAN SUMMER
Blossoms shaken from their star forms
Back to earth,
Flying seedlings warm and waiting
Drift in sunlight with the going
Of the birds towards the south!
Birds are going!
They will sing before they go,
Fill the orchard with their mirth:
Song of harvest, song of summer, song of springtime,—
They remember it was April long ago!
We are parting,
You are going towards the south!
Love was birth.
Is this dying,—
Death my harvest, grief my summer, tears my springtime?...
Well, kiss me kindly,
Song is warmest on the mouth!
Give me love before you go!