LISTENING
There is a place of grass
With daisies like white pools,
Or shining islands in a sea
Of brightening waves.
Swallows, darting, brush
The waves of gentle green,
As though a wide still lake it were,
Not living grass.
Evening draws over all,
Grass and flowers and sky,
And one rich bird prolongs the sweet
Of day on the edge of dark.
The grass is dim, the stars
Lean down the height of heaven;
And the trees, listening in all their leaves,
Scarce-breathing stand.
Nothing is as it was:
The bird on the bough sings on;
The night, pure from the cloud of day,
Is listening.
STONES
Small yellow stones
That, lifted, through my idle fingers fall
Leaving a score—
And these I toss between the parted lips
Of the lapping sea,
And the sea tosses again with millions more—
Yellow and white stones;
Then drawing back her snaky long waves all,
Leaves the stones
Yellow and white upon the sandy shore....
As they were bones
Yellow and white left on the silent shore
Of an unfoaming far unvisioned Sea.