So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,

Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep

Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep

Over the meadows and adown the hill.

So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,

Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.

[Pg 40]

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet

To hear the ripple of the bobolink,

To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,

To feel oneself far from the dusty street,

From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret

Of living, and the fever of regret.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe

It is the same sad woman full of dreams

Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems

I am a child again, and can deceive

My soul with daisies, plucking one by one

The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

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