ANNIVERSARY
| The flowers we planted in the tender spring, And through the summer watched their blossoming, Died with our love in autumn's thoughtful weather, Died and dropped downward altogether. Today in April in the vivid grass They flash again their laughter, pink and yellow, They wake before the frosty sunbeams pass, Gay bold to leave their chilly pillow. But love sleeps longer in his wintry bed, He sleeps as though the lifting light were dead, And spring poured not her colors on the meadow, He sleeps in his cold sober shadow. |
AUTUMN LIGHT
| So bright and soft is the sweet air of morning, And so tenderly the light descends, And blesses with its gentle-falling fingers All the leaves unto the valley's ends— It brings them all to being when it touches With its paleness every glowing vein; The wild and flaming hollows of the forest Kindle all their crimson in its rain; And every curve receives its share of morning, Every little shadow softly grows, And motion finds a melody more tender That like a phantom through the branches goes— So bright and soft and tranquil-rendering, And quiet in its giving, as though love, The morning dream of life, were born of longing, And really poured its being from above. |
A MODERN MESSIAH
| Scarred with sensuality and pain And weary labor in a mind not hard Enough to think, a heart too always tender, Sits the Christ of failure with his lovers. They are wiser than his parables, But he more potent, for he has the gift Of hopelessness, and want of faith, and love. |