Of the wind whose gracious flight is never done,--
Should we be happy then? happy, elusive One?

But no, here in this fragile flesh abides
The secret of a measureless delight,
Hidden in dying beauty there resides
Something undying, something that takes its flight
When the dust turns to dust, and day to night,
And spring to fall, whose joys in love redeem
Eternally, life's changes and death's blight,
Even as these pale, tender petals seem
A glimpse of infinite beauty, flashed in a passing dream.

Cambridge, 1916


II

The heavy bee burdened the golden clover
Droning away the afternoon of summer,
Deep in the rippling grass I called to you
Under the sky's blue flame.
Then when the day was over,
When petals fell fresh with the falling dew,
Stepped from the dusk a radiant newcomer,
Fled by the waters of the sleeping river,
Swift to the arms of your impatient lover,
Gladly you came.
And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever.