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.
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