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