To some deep calm would I drift and nestle
Close to the heart of the Great Surprise. 
O strong wind, do you laugh to see us? 
  We are so little and oh, so wise!

The Prophet

He trod upon the heights; the rarer air
Which common people seek, yet cannot bear,
Fed his high soul and kindled in his eye
The fire of one who cries “I prophesy!”

“Look up!” he said.  They looked but could not see. 
“Help us!” they cried.  He strove, but uselessly—­
The very clouds which veiled the heaven they sought
Hid from his eyes the hearts of them he taught!

Give Me a Day

Give me a day, beloved, that I may set
A jewel in my heart—­I’ll brave regret,
If, on the morrow, you shall say “forget”!

One golden day when dawn shall blush to noon
And noon incline to dark, and, oversoon,
My joy lie buried ’neath a rounded moon.

Only a day—­it’s worth you scarce could tell
From other days; but in my life ’twill dwell
An oasis with palm trees and a well!

Little Brown Bird

O little brown bird in the rain,
  In the sweet rain of spring,
How you carry the youth of the world
  In the bend of your wing! 
For you the long day is for song
  And the night is for sleep—­
With never a sunrise too soon
  Or a midnight too deep!

For you every pool is the sky,
  Breaking clouds chasing through,—­
A heaven so instant and near
  That you bathe in its blue!—­
And yours is the freedom to rise
  To some song-haunted star
Or sink on soft wing to the wood
  Where your brown nestlings are.

So busy, so strong and so glad,
  So care-free and young,
So tingling with life to be lived
  And with songs to be sung,
O little brown bird!—­with your heart
  That’s the heart of the Spring—­
How you carry the hope of the world
  In the bend of your wing!

The Watcher

The long road and the low shore, a sail against the sky,
The ache in my heart’s core, and hope so hard to die—­
Ah me, but the day’s long—­and all the sails go by!

The long road and the dark shore, pools with stars aflame,
The ache in my heart’s core, the hope I dare not name—­
Ah, me, but the night’s long—­and every night the same!

Possession

A youth sat down on a wayside stone,
  A pack on his back and a staff at his knee. 
He whistled a tune which he called his own,
  “It’s a fine new tune, that tune!” said he.

In his pack he carried a crust of bread,
  And he drank from his hands at a brook hard by;
“Spring water is wonderful cool,” he said,
  “And wonderful soft is the summer sky!”