III
I think God made your soul for better things
Than idly laughing with the noisy crew.
I think He meant the spirit that is you
To soar above the world with silver wings;
To hear the music of celestial strings;
To keep the flame within you always true
Unto your own high pole; and pure as dew
The fountain that within you sometimes sings.
I think you are an exile in the noise
Of busy markets; alien to the toys
That dazzle others, firing them with greed;
And, like a seagull, lost upon the land,
You long for the large breakers and the sand,
The strong salt air, the surf, the drifting weed.
IV
The world was waiting for the thunder’s birth,
To-day, and cloud was piled on sullen cloud:
Then strong, and straight, and clean, and cool, and loud
The rain came down, and drenched the stifling earth.
The heavy clouds have lifted and rolled by;
The riotous wet leaves with music ring,
And now the nightingale begins to sing,
And tender as a rose-leaf is the sky.
I wonder if some day this stifling care
That weighs upon my heart will fall in showers?
I wonder if the hot and heavy hours
Will roll away and leave such limpid air,
And if my soul will riot in the rain,
And sing as gladly as that bird again?
V
I picked this cornflower in the rustling rye,
These briar roses from a luscious hedge,
This purple iris in the woodland sedge.
It was the quaver of the dragon-fly,
Dropped like a piece of azure from the sky,
That led me to that pool amongst the trees—
And there I lay and listened to the bees,
And murmured sadly to myself: “Good-bye.”