Of buds—and strikes in vain

The intervening glass.

O sprite of wings and fire

Outstretching eagerly,

My soul with like desire

To probe thy mystery,

Comes close as breast to bloom,

As bud to hot heart-beat,

And gains no inner room,

And drains no hidden sweet.

{26}

{26}

September

BUT yesterday all faint for breath,

B

The Summer laid her down to die;

And now her frail ghost wandereth

In every breeze that loiters by.

Her wilted prisoners look up,

As wondering who hath broke their chain,

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