While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood. LOVE'S CAUTION Tell them, when you are home again, How warm the air was now; How silent were the birds and leaves, And of the moon's full glow; And how we saw afar A falling star: It was a tear of pure delight Ran down the face of Heaven this happy night. Our kisses are but love in flower, Until that greater time When, gathering strength, those flowers take wing, And Love can reach his prime. And now, my heart's delight, Good night, good night; Give me the last sweet kiss-- But do not breathe at home one word of this! WASTED HOURS How many buds in this warm light Have burst out laughing into leaves! And shall a day like this be gone Before I seek the wood that holds The richest music known? Too many times have nightingales Wasted their passion on my sleep, And brought repentance soon: But this one night I'll seek the woods, The nightingale, and moon. THE TRUTH Since I have seen a bird one day, His head pecked more than half away; That hopped about, with but one eye, Ready to fight again, and die-- Ofttimes since then their private lives Have spoilt that joy their music gives. So when I see this robin now, Like a red apple on the bough, And question why he sings so strong, For love, or for the love of song; Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill Whose silver tongue is never still-- Ah, now there comes this thought unkind, Born of the knowledge in my mind: He sings in triumph that last night He killed his father in a fight; And now he'll take his mother's blood-- The last strong rival for his food. * * * * * WALTER DE LA MARE THE MOTH Isled in the midnight air, Musked with the dark's faint bloom, Out into glooming and secret haunts The flame cries, 'Come!' Lovely in dye and fan, A-tremble in shimmering grace, A moth from her winter swoon Uplifts her face: Stares from her glamorous eyes; Wafts her on plumes like mist; In ecstasy swirls and sways To her strange tryst. 'SOTTO VOCE' (To EDWARD THOMAS) The haze of noon wanned silver-grey, The soundless mansion of the sun; The air made visible in his ray, Like molten glass from furnace run, Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone And the flower of the gorse burned on-- Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair Along each spiky spray, and shed Almond-like incense in the air Whereon our senses fed. At foot--a few sparse harebells: blue And still as were the friend's dark eyes That dwelt on mine, transfixed through With sudden ecstatic surmise.