Nothing has changed; with the same hollow thunder The waves die in their everlasting snow-- Only the place we sat is drifted over, Lost in the blowing sand, long, long ago. _Blue Stargrass_ If we took the old path In the old field The same gate would stand there That will never yield. Where the sun warmed us With a cloak made of gold, The rain would be falling And the wind would be cold; And we would stop to search In the wind and the rain, But we would not find the stargrass By the path again. _September Night_ We walked in the dew, in the drowsy starlight To the sleepless, sleepy sound Of insects singing in the low sea-meadows For miles and miles around; With a wheel and a whirr the resistless rhythm Trembled incessantly; Antares was red in the sky before us, And behind us, the blackness of the sea. _Low Tide_ The birds are gathering over the dunes, Swerving and wheeling in shifting flight, A thousand wings sweep darkly by Over the dunes and out of sight. Why did you bring me down to the sea With the gathering birds and the fish-hawk flying, The tide is low and the wind is hard, Nothing is left but the old year dying. I wish I were one of the gathering birds, Two sharp black wings would be good for me-- When nothing is left but the old year dying, Why did you bring me down to the sea? IV PORTRAITS _Effigy of a Nun_ (Sixteenth Century) Infinite gentleness, infinite irony Are in this face with fast-sealed eyes, And round this mouth that learned in loneliness How useless their wisdom is to the wise. In her nun’s habit carved, patiently, lovingly, By one who knew the ways of womankind, This woman’s face still keeps, in its cold wistful calm, All of the subtle pride of her mind. These long patrician hands, clasping the crucifix, Show she had weighed the world, her will was set; These pale curved lips of hers, holding their hidden smile, Once having made their choice, knew no regret. She was of those who hoard their own thoughts carefully, Feeling them far too dear to give away, Content to look at life with the high, insolent Air of an audience watching a play. If she was curious, if she was passionate She must have told herself that love was great, But that the lacking it might be as great a thing If she held fast to it, challenging fate. She who so loved herself and her own warring thoughts, Watching their humorous, tragic rebound, In her thick habit’s fold, sleeping, sleeping, Is she amused at dreams she has found? Infinite tenderness, infinite irony Are hidden forever in her closed eyes, Who must have learned too well in her long loneliness How empty wisdom is, even to the wise.