This starlit road with its dark towering pines,
Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloud
From field to field, its silences, its shroud
Of clinging dark and all its trailing vines
White with moonshine and the priestly dew,
We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,—
Alone I go towards that glistening stone
Which marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you.
Singing the water rushes past your quiet grave
Beneath this little town whose ancient name
Suggests the fair collegiate dream and fame
Of Oxford and her clustered towers. With wave
The river winds a garland for your rest—
The woven sound of grieving without end.
To you I bring the memory of a friend
And lay these words on your remembered breast.
THE NEST
I
Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?
And is there room at your side?
And can you hear the sound of my breath
And sorrow that cries like a tide?
II
Oh, may I take your hand, dear one,
As the nest enfolds the bird,
Lie close to your heart and breast to breast
And never a spoken word?
III
What then if the stars be gone, dear one,
What then if the wind be still,
And words that we spoke long years ago
Drift pale and faint and chill?