CHARM: TO BE SAID IN THE SUN
I reach my arms up, to the sky,
And golden vine on vine
Of sunlight showered wild and high,
Around my brows I twine.
I wreathe, I wind it everywhere,
The burning radiancy
Of brightness that no eye may dare,
To be the strength of me.
Come, redness of the crystalline,
Come green, come hither blue
And violet—all alive within,
For I have need of you.
Come honey-hue and flush of gold,
And through the pallor run,
With pulse on pulse of manifold
New largess of the Sun!
O steep the silence till it sing!
O glories from the height,
Come down, where I am garlanding
With light, a child of light!
Josephine Preston Peabody
THE DIALS
With fingers softer than the touch of death
The sundial writes the passing of the day,
The hours unfolding slow to twilight gray,
The gleaming moments vanish in a breath.
But sunny hours alone the sundial names;
All unrecorded are the midnight spans
And vain within the dusk the watcher scans
The marble face; thereon no record flames.