His legs rose with the spring and curve of young birches; The hollow of his back caught the blue shadows: 

 With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind; And the curls of his forehead astir with the wind. 

 I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful; Their bodies are like the bows of the Indians; They have the spring and the grace of bows of hickory. 

 I know that women are beautiful, and that I am beautiful; But the beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and triumphant, Swift as the night of a swallow and sure as the pounce of the eagle. 

NOCTURNE: IN ANJOU

 I dreamed of Sappho on a summer night. Her nightingales were singing in the trees Beside the castled river; and the wind Fell like a woman's fingers on my cheek. And then I slept and dreamed and marked no change; The night went on with me into my dream. This only I remember, that I cried: "O Sappho! ere I leave this paradise, Sing me one song of those lost books of yours For which we poets still go sorrowing; That when I meet my fellows on the earth I may rejoice them more than many pearls;" And she, the sweetly smiling, answered me, As one who dreams, "I have forgotten them." 

NOCTURNE: IN PROVENCE.

 The blue night, like an angel, came into the room,-- Came through the open window from the silent sky Down trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear room As if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh. The nightingales, like brooks of song in Paradise, Gurgled their serene rapture to the silent sky-- Like springs of laughter bubbling up in Paradise, The serene nightingales along the riverside Purled low in every tree their star-cool melodies Of joy--in every tree along the riverside. 

 Did the vain garments melt in music from your side? Did you rise from them as a lily flowers i' the air? --But you were there before me like the Night's own bride-- I dared not call you mine. So still and tall you were, I never dreamed that you were mine--I never dreamed I loved you--I forgot I loved you. You were air And music, and the shadows that you stood in, seemed Like priests that keep their sombre vigil round a shrine-- Like sombre priests that watch about a glorious shrine. 

 And then you stepped into the moonlight and laid bare The wonder of your body to the night, and stood With all the stars of heaven looking at you there, As simply as a saint might bare her 

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