PIERROT AT THE WAR
The leaden years have dragged themselves away;
The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd down
And flattened by the hurricane of death:
The roses fallen, and their fragrant breath
Has passed beyond our senses—and we drown
Our tragic thoughts: confine them to the day.
Pierrot was happy here two years ago,
Singing through all the summer-scented hours,
Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night.
Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white,
Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers,
Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below.
But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground,
Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight.
With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone,
He gazes at the sky—left all alone—
Grimacing under every rising light:
His body waits the peace his soul has found.
April, 1917.
SPRING HOURS
The air is silken—soft and dark—
Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea;
Sweet as a youthful dream,
The trees stand cold and stark,
Yet full of the new life which makes each tree
To tremble with delight; sets free
The summer rapture of the stream.
But now the clouds disperse and drift away,
Splashing the woods with patches of pale light,
Sail off like silver ships, and then display
The dazzling myriad blossoms of the night.
Ah! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hour
To see the heavens bursting into flower.