Dreaming her over the seas to France.

Or quiet under the aspen’s shade,

Misty-eyed little pensive maid,

Musing under the Great Steep’s tree,

Is it for Pierrot?—where is he?

A flutter of petticoats, buff and blue,

Sashes and streamers and holiday tire,

Columbine trips her a measure for you,

Gayest heart of the waltzing choir.

Under the pines I saw her dance,

Lilting a gay little tune of France.

Saxifrage.

The wide, wide sky was a crystal clear,

A great blue dome that quivered near.

And oh, the white-flowered miracle grown

Out of the broad gray breast of a stone!

Little plant, did you guess that when I heard

You whisper your one sweet rune-telling word,

Straight into the crystal I could see,

And the Heart of the Sky leaned down to me?

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