Shadow of tumbled hair
Shadow of hanging vine
Fountains of gold that twine
In singing water.

A secret I have heard
From the scarlet beak of the bird
That sings at the close of day,
Fills me with cold unrest
Under the open doors of the fiery west.

“O heart of clay,
O lips of dust,
O blue-shadowed wisteria vine;
Youth falls away
As petals must
Beneath the drooping leaves in the day’s decline.”

Paris, 1919

V

In gardens when the sun is set,
The air is heavy with the wet
Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense
Of peach-blossom and violet.

There is no lurking foe to fear,
Only the friendly ghosts are here
Of lazy youth and dozing age,
Who sat and mellowed year by year,

Until they merged with all the rest
Beneath the overhanging west,
And took their sleep with tranquil hearts
Safe in our Mother’s mighty breast.

If there be any sound, ’tis sweet,
The hidden rush of eager feet
Where robins flutter in the dust,
Or perch upon the garden-seat,

And little voices that are known
To those who contemplate alone
The busy universe that moves
In gardens rank and overgrown.

Here in the garden we are one,
The golden dust, the setting sun,
The languid leaves, the birds and I,—­
Small bubbles on oblivion.

Tours, 1918

VI

Now the white dove has found her mate,
  And the rainbow breaks into stars;
And the cattle lunge through the mossy gate
  As the old man lowers the bars.

Westerly wind with a rainy smell,
  Eaves that drip in the mud;
And the pain of the tender miracle
  Stabbing the languid blood.

Over the long, wet meadow-land,
  Beyond the deep sunset,
There is a hand that pressed your hand,
  And eyes that shall not forget.

Now the West is the door of wrath,
  Now ’tis a burnt-out coal;
Petals fall on the orchard path;
  Darkness falls on the soul.

Washington, 1918

VII

When voices sink in twilight silences,
Like swimmers in a sea of quietude,
And faint farewells re-echo from the hill;
When the last thrush his sleepy vesper says,
And the lost threnody of the whip-poor-will
Gropes through the gathering shadows in the wood;

Then in the paths where dusk fades into grey,
And sighing shapes stir that I never see,
I follow still a quest of old despair
To find at last,—­ah, but I cannot say,
Except that I have known a face somewhere,
And loved in times beyond all memory.

O soulless face! white flash in solitude,
Forgotten phantom of a moonless night,
Shall I kiss thy sad mouth once again, or wait
Drowned beneath fathoms of a tideless mood
Until the stars flee through the western gate
Driven in shivering fear before the light?