Build high your white and dazzling palaces,

Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers,

Storm with a loud and a portentous lip;

And April with a fragmentary breeze,

And half a score of gentle, golden hours,

Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.

{47}

{47}

Rest

FROM the depths of dreams I am drawn

F

To the inner depth of a pine,

That near my window keeps the dawn—

A dawn that is wholly mine.

Dream-rest and pine-rest,

And a cool, gray path between—

A cool, gray path from the night’s breast

To the heart of the living green.

To the depths of dreams I go

On the sounds of falling rain,

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