Pan, blow your pipes and I will be Your fern, your pool, your dream, your tree!

I heard you play, caught your swift eye, "A pretty melody!" called I, "Hail, Pan!" And sought to pa.s.s you by.

Now blow your pipes and I will sing To your sure lips' accompanying!

Wild G.o.d, who lifted me from earth, Who taught me freedom, wisdom, mirth, Immortalized my body's worth, --

Blow, blow your pipes! And from afar I'll come -- I'll be your bird, your star, Your wood, your nymph, your kiss, your rhyme, And all your G.o.dlike summer-time!

Afternoon on a Hill. [Edna St. Vincent Millay]

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the gra.s.s, And the gra.s.s rise.

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

Open Windows. [Sara Teasdale]

Out of the window a sea of green trees Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer; They beckon and call me, "Come out in the sun!"

But I cannot answer.

I am alone with Weakness and Pain, Sick abed and June is going, I cannot keep her, she hurries by With the silver-green of her garments blowing.

Men and women pa.s.s in the street Glad of the shining sapphire weather, But we know more of it than they, Pain and I together.

They are the runners in the sun, Breathless and blinded by the race, But we are watchers in the shade Who speak with Wonder face to face.

Old Amaze. [Mahlon Leonard Fisher]

Mine eyes are filled today with old amaze At mountains, and at meadows deftly strewn With bits of the gay jewelry of June And of her splendid vesture; and, agaze, I stand where Spring her bright brocade of days Embroidered o'er, and listen to the flow Of sudden runlets -- the faint blasts they blow, Low, on their stony bugles, in still ways.

For wonders are at one, confederate yet: Yea, where the wearied year came to a close, An odor reminiscent of the rose; And everywhere her seal has Summer set; And, as of old, in the horizon-sky, The sun can find a lovely place to die.

Voyage a l'Infini. [Walter Conrad Arensberg]

The swan existing Is like a song with an accompaniment Imaginary.

Across the gra.s.sy lake, Across the lake to the shadow of the willows, It is accompanied by an image, -- as by Debussy's "Reflets dans l'eau".

The swan that is Reflects Upon the solitary water -- breast to breast With the duplicity: "~The other one!~"

And breast to breast it is confused.

O visionary wedding! O stateliness of the procession!

It is accompanied by the image of itself Alone.

At night The lake is a wide silence, Without imagination.

After Sunset. [Grace Hazard Conkling]

I have an understanding with the hills At evening when the slanted radiance fills Their hollows, and the great winds let them be, And they are quiet and look down at me.

Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes Out of the centuries that made them wise.

They lend me h.o.a.rded memory and I learn Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern, And why a dream of forests must endure Though every tree be slain: and how the pure, Invisible beauty has a word so brief A flower can say it or a shaken leaf, But few may ever snare it in a song, Though for the quest a life is not too long.

When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull The twilight close with gesture beautiful, And shadows are their garments, and the air Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer, -- Their arms are strong around me; and I know That somehow I shall follow when you go To the still land beyond the evening star, Where everlasting hills and valleys are: And silence may not hurt us any more, And terror shall be past, and grief, and war.

Morning Song of Senlin. [Conrad Aiken]

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do.

Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet Stand before a gla.s.s and tie my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror And tie my tie once more.

While waves far off in a pale rose twilight Crash on a white sand sh.o.r.e.

I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: How small and white my face! -- The green earth tilts through a sphere of air And bathes in a flame of s.p.a.ce.

There are houses hanging above the stars And stars hung under a sea . . .

And a sun far off in a sh.e.l.l of silence Dapples my walls for me . . .