Who marks the months’ retreat? It is not fall when roses are abloom, When strawberries are sweet, And snowy, great magnolias breathe perfume. This bright September day, With radiant sky and balmy airs at play, Renewing joy in every living thing, Is Spring! Is Spring! And so with you, dear Mother! Heart of youth, Wise in your dreaming, soul of mystery, Tender in faith and truth. Lo, in your gentle hands you hold the key Of Spring eternal, of the spirit’s prime; You make a slave of time. With his malicious fears, And as this _spring_ day brightly Clasps like a gem the threaded years You wear so lightly, Who shall seek to sum them, Admiring still how sweetly you become them? _Vitré September 3, 1913_ THE BLAZED TRAIL Just when the path is lost to me, Bewildered wanderer in the maze, Upon some unexpected tree I spy the Woodman’s blaze; A mystic rune of sight or sound, A message quick from sense to soul, That lifts the spirit from the ground And speeds it to the goal. A wind-flower nodding by an oak Has given assurance from afar; Once in the dark a fragrance spoke, And once it was a star. The silver fluting of a thrush; The bursting of a sunken flame; A sigh of wind, a sudden hush— Out of the depths I came. A burning challenge to despair Flashed from an idly-open book; A small dumb creature’s silent prayer, A friend’s revealing look; And all the doubtful horrors fade, The weary heart leaps up again. Through tangled thickets in the shade, The Trail shows broad and plain. BUT THERE ARE WINGS “How big it is, the Blueness everywhere!” Between two seas, her playtime scarce begun, Trembles the shy, bewildered little one. Above her roll the shoreless depths of air Reflected in her azure eyes; and there Close to her feet in thunderous fury run The crowding waters, peacock in the sun, That fling a salty threat upon her hair.