The air is vibrant with a sensuous charm;
The grasses nod, and drowse beneath the sun;
Dim, swelling tones upon the breezes run.
In soft security from dread alarm,
The doves are cooing; and the wind with warm
Caress, bears the arbutus' missive, one
Love-wrought line of scented rapture, none
Subtler to woo the honey-hunting swarm.
Let me sigh out my soul in ecstasy,
And breathe forth all the fragrance of my being
Upon the slowly-stirring summer air;
Let me no longer merely scent, hear, see;
But one with Nature, in that Law agreeing—
That God-willed Law that tincts the Beauty there—
May 18, 1912.

AFTER THE NEO-PLATONISTS

Night wove her web across the sun that died
In crimson colors; velvet-falling gloom
Hung curtain-wise, and, like some rich perfume,
Formed the soft essence of each wind that sighed.
Out of my casement through the dark, I spied
The moon afloat in tide of golden spume
Like some fair flower opening into bloom;
The earth lay dim; the Heavens starry-eyed;
And breezes softer than a maiden's breath
Hushed all the air. O night, how sweet thy charm!
Yet not thy moon, nor stars, nor wind, each one
Of these shall pass when we are changed by death—
But rather sleep, thou death-in-life, more warm
Yet not so sweet as sweet oblivion.
September 18, 1912.

WHAT WOULDST THOU BE?

What wouldst thou be? A cloud upon the air
Of summer skies afloat in sunlit charm,
And drinking azure bliss, all free from care,
And nestling near the sun's breast rich and warm?
What wouldst thou be? A comet, trailing eyes
Of thousand terrors through the throbbing night,
And filling earth with fear and vague surprise
To gaze upon thy bright, liquescent light?
What wouldst thou be? A sullen, stalwart cliff
Immovable upon a grassy plain,
Kissed by no clouds, and cold, and stark, and stiff,
Unmelted by the gentle tears of rain?
I ask nor to be gay, nor great nor strong—
Make me a thought incarnate in some song.
May 24, 1912.