My soul lives in my body’s house, And you have both the house and he… But sometimes she is less your own Than a wild, gay adventurer; A restless and an eager wraith,

I have no riches but my thoughts, Yet these are wealth enough for me… My thoughts of you are golden coin… Stamped in the mint of memory; And I must spend them all in song…

DEATH went up the hall Unseen by every one, Trailing twilight robes Past the nurse and the nun. He paused at every door

What do I care, in the dreams and… That my songs do not show me at al… For they are a fragrance, and I a… I am an answer, they are only a ca… But what do I care, for love will…

The birds are all a-building, They say the world’s a-flower, And still I linger lonely Within a barren bower. I weave a web of fancies

IF I were a bee and you were a ro… Would you let me in when the gray… Would you hold your petals wide ap… Would you let me in to find your h… If you were a rose?

The city’s all a-shining Beneath a fickle sun, A gay young wind’s a-blowing, The little shower is done. But the rain-drops still are cling…

I asked the heaven of stars What I should I give my love— It answered me with silence, Silence above. I asked the darkened sea

I SHOULD be glad of loneliness And hours that go on broken wings, A thirsty body, a tired heart And the unchanging ache of things, If I could make a single song

Brown Thrush singing all day long In the leaves above me, Take my love this little song, “Love me, love me, love me!” When he harkens what you say,

To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me— The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive, shy year…

You go a long and lovely journey, For all the stars, like burning de… Are luminous and luring footprints Of souls adventurous as you. Oh, if you lived on earth elated,

Beneath my chamber window Pierrot was singing, singing; I heard his lute the whole night t… Until the east was red. Alas, alas Pierrot,

SO long as my spirit still Is glad of breath And lifts its plumes of pride In the dark face of death; While I am curious still

It is not a word spoken, Few words are said; Nor even a look of the eyes Nor a bend of the head, But only a hush of the heart