art
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!"

He looked to the hill which his steps had passed,
He looked to the slope where a brooklet purled,
He looked to the distance blue and vast
And "Ah," cried he, "what a fine, wide world!"

The youth passed on down the winding track
That led to the beckoning distance dim,
And though he carried but staff and pack,
The world and its giving belonged to him.

To Arcady

"TELL me, Singer, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Of the world's roads I am weary--
You, with song so brave and cheery,
Happy troubadour must be
On the way to Arcady?"

Pausing on a muted note,
Song forsook the Singer's throat,
"Friend," sighed he, "you come too late,
Once I could the way relate,
Once--but long ago; Ah me,
Far away is Arcady!"

"Tell me, Poet, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Haunting is your verse and airy
With the grace and gleam of faery--
Dweller you must surely be
In the land of Arcady?"

Slow the Poet raised his eyes,
Sad were they as winter skies,
"Once, I sojourned there," he said;
Then, no more--but with bent head
Whispered low, "Ask not of me
That lost road to Arcady!"

Tell me, Lover, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Some sweet bourne your haste confesses--
Know you paths no other guesses?
Does your gaze, so far away,
See the road to Arcady?

In the Lover's eyes there gleamed
Radiance of all things dreamed--
"Nay, detain me not," he cried
"I am hasting to my bride;
What have roads to do with me,
Love's at home in Arcady!"

The Fields of Even

O STILLER than the fields that lie
Beneath the morning heaven,
And sweeter than day's gardens are