Nor mine to give—and yet to-night I wake
Remembering your giving. But the note
Of that moon-haunted robin must not shake
My calm belief that you—austere, remote—
Need nothing I can ever mar or make.
THE WITCH
THEY—the good people—heard her song
From out of the wood that grows thick in the valley.
She had climbed to the hill-top that rises, blue,
Out of the wood as one comes through.