Paris, 1919

III

Against my wall the summer weaves Profundities of dusky leaves, And many-petaled stars full-blown In constellated whiteness sown; I contemplate with lazy eyes My small estate in Paradise, And very comforting to me Is this familiarity.

Paris, 1919

IV

Into the trembling air, Calm on the sunset mist, Sweetness of gardens where The yellow slave boy kissed The Sultan's daughter....

Shadow of tumbled hair Shadow of hanging vine Fountains of gold that twine In singing water.

A secret I have heard From the scarlet beak of the bird That sings at the close of day, Fills me with cold unrest Under the open doors of the fiery west.

"O heart of clay, O lips of dust, O blue-shadowed wisteria vine; Youth falls away As petals must Beneath the drooping leaves in the day's decline."

Paris, 1919

V

In gardens when the sun is set, The air is heavy with the wet Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense Of peach-blossom and violet.

There is no lurking foe to fear, Only the friendly ghosts are here Of lazy youth and dozing age, Who sat and mellowed year by year,

Until they merged with all the rest Beneath the overhanging west, And took their sleep with tranquil hearts Safe in our Mother's mighty breast.

If there be any sound, 'tis sweet, The hidden rush of eager feet Where robins flutter in the dust, Or perch upon the garden-seat,

And little voices that are known To those who contemplate alone The busy universe that moves In gardens rank and overgrown.

Here in the garden we are one, The golden dust, the setting sun, The languid leaves, the birds and I,-- Small bubbles on oblivion.

Tours, 1918

VI

Now the white dove has found her mate, And the rainbow breaks into stars; And the cattle lunge through the mossy gate As the old man lowers the bars.

Westerly wind with a rainy smell, Eaves that drip in the mud; And the pain of the tender miracle Stabbing the languid blood.

Over the long, wet meadow-land, Beyond the deep sunset, There is a hand that pressed your hand, And eyes that shall not forget.

Now the West is the door of wrath, Now 'tis a burnt-out coal; Petals fall on the orchard path; Darkness falls on the soul.

Washington, 1918

VII

When voices sink in twilight silences, Like swimmers in a sea of quietude, And faint farewells re-echo from the hill; When the last thrush his sleepy vesper says, And the lost threnody of the whip-poor-will Gropes through the gathering shadows in the wood;

Then in the paths where dusk fades into grey, And sighing shapes stir that I never see, I follow still a quest of old despair To find at last,--ah, but I cannot say, Except that I have known a face somewhere, And loved in times beyond all memory.

O soulless face! white flash in solitude, Forgotten phantom of a moonless night, Shall I kiss thy sad mouth once again, or wait Drowned beneath fathoms of a tideless mood Until the stars flee through the western gate Driven in shivering fear before the light?

Cambridge, 1916

VIII

When noon is blazing on the town, The fields are loud with droning flies, The people pull their curtains down, And all the houses shut their eyes.

The palm leaf drops from your mother's hand And she dozes there in a darkened room, Outside there is silence on the land, And only poppies dare to bloom.

Open the door and steal away Through grain and briar shoulder high, There are secrets hid in the heart of day, In the hush and slumber of July.

Your face will burn a fiery red, Your feet will drag through dusty flame, Your brain turn molten in your head, And you will wish you never came.

O never mind, go on, go on,-- There is a brook where willows lean; To weave deep caverns from the sun,

And there the gra.s.s grows cool and green.

And there is one as cool as gra.s.s, Lying beneath the willow tree, Counting the dragon flies that pa.s.s, And talking to the humble bee.

She has not stirred since morning came, She does not know how in the town The earth shakes dizzily with flame, And all the curtains are drawn down.

Sit down beside her; she can tell The strangest secrets you would hear, And cool as water in a well, Her words flow down upon your ear....

She speaks no more, but in your hair Her fingers soft as lullabies Fold up your senses unaware, Into a poppy paradise.

And when you wake, the evening mist Is rising up to float the hill, And you will say, "The mouth I kissed, The voice I heard...a dream...but still

"The gra.s.s is matted where she lay, I feel her fingers in my hair"...

But your lamp is bright across the way, And your mother knits in the rocking chair.

Paris, 1919

IX

The trees have never seemed so green Since I remember, As in these groves and gardens of September, And yet already comes the chill That bodes the world's last garden ill, And in the shadow I have seen A spectre,--even thine, O Vandal, O November.

The wind leaps up with sudden screams In gusts of chaff.

Two boys with blowing hair listen and laugh.