"Mortal, where your heart would be
Not a wanderer may go,
But he shares the dark with me
Underneath the snow."

And the scarlet berries scattered
With the coming on of fall;
Not to one of them it mattered
Anything at all.




[Illustration]

_The Moondial_


Iron and granite and rust,
In a crumbling garden old,
Where the roses are paler than dust
And the lilies are green with gold,

Under the racing moon,
Inconscious of war or crime,
In a strange and ghostly noon,
It marks the oblivion of time.

The shadow steals through its arc,
Still as a frosted breath,