Against the dark of that disastrous quest.

The sadness of all brief and lovely things,

The fine and futile passions that we bear,

Haunt the bright wreck of your too fragile wings,

And win a pity for you, ended there,—

Like us, hurled backward to the final shade,

From mad adventures for a moon or maid.

[34]

[34]

MYSTIC

For Something glimpsed upon the topmost hill,

For Something glinting down a country lane,

Where apple-blossoms shimmer white and spill

A ghostly shower close along the rain,—

For Something guessed beyond the hedge or tree,

Hinted and hid behind the evening star,

I am made captive and am never free

Of Something that is neither near nor far.

A waking through the windy shapes of grass,

A trembling as of light along a bough,—

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