Grant me the moment, the lovely moment
That I may lean forth to see
The other buds, the other blooms,
The other leaves on the tree:
That I may take into my bosom
The breeze that is like his brother,
But stiller, lighter, whose faint laughter
Echoes the joy of the other.
Above on the blue and white cloud-spaces
There are small clouds at play.
I watch their remote, mysterious play-time
In the other far-away.
Grant I may hear the small birds singing
The song that the silence knows ...
(The Light and the Shadow whisper together,
The lovely moment grows,
Ripples into the air like water
Away and away without sound,
And the little girl gets up from her praying
On the cold ground.)
1919.
THE WOUNDED BIRD
In the wide bed
Under the green embroidered quilt
With flowers and leaves always in soft motion
She is like a wounded bird resting on a pool.
The hunter threw his dart
And hit her breast,—
Hit her but did not kill.
“O my wings, lift me—lift me!
I am not dreadfully hurt!”
Down she dropped and was still.