Heaven-invading hills are drowned In wide moving waves of mist, Phlox before my door are wound In dripping wreaths of amethyst. Ten feet away the solid earth

MY forefathers gave me My spirit’s shaken flame, The shape of hands, the beat of he… The letters of my name. But it was my lovers,

I cannot die, who drank delight From the cup of the crescent moon, And hungrily as men eat bread, Loved the scented nights of June. The rest may die—but is there not

The sparrows wake beneath the conv… I think I have not slept the whol… But I am old; the aged scarcely k… The times they wake and sleep, for… They breathe the calm of death bef…

The spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonligh… The lilac brimmed with dew. Here in the moving shadows

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

Blue dust of evening over my city, Over the ocean of roofs and the ta… Where the window-lights, myriads a… Bloom from the walls like climbing…

I heard a cry in the night, A thousand miles it came, Sharp as a flash of light, My name, my name! It was your voice I heard,

He trod the earth but yesterday, And now he treads the stars. He left us in the April time He praised so often in his rhyme, He left the singing and the lyre a…

If I could have your arms tonight… But half the world and the broken… Lie between you and me. The autumn rain reverberates in th… Beating all night against the barr…

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

The wide, bright temple of the wor… And entered from the dizzy infinit… That I might kneel and worship th… Leaving the singing stars their ce… Of silver music sound on orbed sou…

Here in the velvet stillness The wide sown fields fall to the f… Sleeping in starlight. . . . A year ago we walked in the jangli… Together . . . . forgetful.

I hoped that he would love me, And he has kissed my mouth, But I am like a stricken bird That cannot reach the south. For though I know he loves me,

I am the still rain falling, Too tired for singing mirth— Oh, be the green fields calling, Oh, be for me the earth! I am the brown bird pining