gh I cannot see it clearly)
It is, by right of its own being,
One with all lovely, youthful things;
And they, its age-old kindred,
Welcome it
Saying, "Come, you too are one of us!"

. . . . . . .

This spirit is my own happy ghost--
But I, myself,--alas!

Perhaps

THERE was a man, once, and a woman
Whose love was so entire
That an angel, watching them,
Said wistfully, "Would I were no angel
But a mortal,
Loving so, and so beloved!"
. . . . Yet, when these two mated,
A muddied drop, from some forgotten vial of ancestry,
Brought them a child whose mind was dark;
Who lived--and never called them by their names . . .
. . . . They tended her
For twenty years.
Only when she died
Did they weep, whispering,
"Why?"
The years could find no answer,
Though they went questioning
Until the end.

. . . . . . .

Still wondering
They wandered out into the other country . . . .
It was lonely there,
Being parted from familiar things,
And there was no one to answer questions,
But, suddenly,
(As a wind blows or a swallow flies against the sun)
Came a young girl--eager!
She ran to them,
Calling dear names,
(Names that would open heaven)
"Who are you?" they entreated, trembling . . . .
But they knew!--
Had they not dreamed her so
For twenty years?

Glamour

THE knowledge of love
Is like sudden sun upon a river--
The slipping water
Is instantly opaque and glorious.
No longer can we look into it
Counting the pebbles,
Watching the ribboned water-reeds,
Or searching idly
For that something which we lost
(A ring with gems)
It is all glamour, now!
We turn away, shading our eyes.

Friendship

I THOUGHT of friendship
As a golden ring,
Round as the world
Yet fitted to my finger;
I thought of friendship
As a path in spring
Where there are flowers
And the footsteps linger;
I thought of friendship
As a globe of light,
Yellow before the doorway of my life,
A flame diffused
Yet potent against night;
I thought--but thought itself in ruin lies
Since, yesterday, you passed with lowered eyes!

The Returned Man

THEY thought that he would come back
Quieter,
Less boyish,
But still a hero with tales to tell.
So, when there were no tales,
Only blank silences--
When he lay for hours
Staring through leafing branches
And forgot them
Utterly--
They tried to arouse him, saying:
"The war is over."
But when he turned on them
His shadowed eyes
They stammered--
K