And there's the harp on which great fingers play Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things; And there's a soul that wanders out when called By a voice afar from the answering strings.  

  

  

      And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears, Till the vision, the mad music are wept away. One cannot have them and live, but if one die It might be better than living—who can say?  

  

  

      Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough? Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul—      But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love!  

  

   

  

       DAHLIAS     

      The mad wind is the warden, And the smiling dahlias nod To the dahlias across the garden, And the wastes of the golden rod. They never pray for pardon, Nor ask his way nor forego, Nor close their hearts nor harden Nor stay his hand, nor bestow Their hearts filched out of their bosoms, Nor plan for dahlias to be. For the wind blows over the garden And sets the dahlias free. They drift to the song of the warden, Heedless they give him heed. And he walks and blows through the garden Blossom and leaf and seed. 

  

  

       THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES     

      Silvers and purples breathing in a sky Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger, Of the restrained but passionate July Upon the marshes of the river lie, Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly.  

 Prev. P 57/125 next