The sighing garden calls me from the door;
Above the hills a little crescent swings—
Above the path where you will come no more
When beetles hurry by on vibrant wings,
And plaintively and near the cricket sings.
THE LITTLE MEMORIES
MY thoughts of you ... although I strain and sigh
At stubborn roots, at boughs that tear my face,
No plants in all my garden grow so high,
Nor fill with sturdier life a wider place.
It pleases me, and wakes an old delight,
To go with wordy shears in idle times
And trim them as a patient gardener might,
Clipping the thorny boughs to curves and rhymes.
If these were all, opposing strength with strength
To make my hurt an easier thing to bear;
If these alone usurped my garden’s length,
It would not be so hard—I should not care.
But close against the ground, oh, small and weak!
The trodden flowers, the little memories, grow.
Uprooting fingers press them to my cheek....
Dear heart, I love you, and I miss you so.
PASS BY
MIND said, “Pass by.
The garden withers, for the spring is dry.
For words of thine, for tears, it will not flow.
The long road calls a wanderer: rise and go.”