The rain was brown upon the earth, In turbid stream and tiny seas-- In swift and slender shafts that beat The flowers to their knees. The rain is mirror to the sky, To leaning grass in image clear, And drifting in the shining pools The clouds are white and near. BEST-LOVED It was a joy whose stem I did not break-- A little thing I passed with crowded hands, And gave a backward look for beauty’s sake. Of all I pulled and wove and flung aside, Was any hue preferred above the rest? I only know they pleased me well, and died. But this--it lives distinct in Memory’s sight, A little thing, incurving like a pearl. I think its heart had never seen the light. THE ROSE[2] Ay, pluck a jonquil when the May’s a-wing! Or please you with a rose upon the breast, A sweeter violet chosen from the rest, To match your mood with blue caprice of spring-- Leave windy vines a tendril less to swing. Why, what’s a flower? A day’s delight at best, A perfume loved, a faded petal pressed, A whimsey for an hour’s remembering. But wondrous careful must he draw the rose From jealous earth, who seeks to set anew Deep root, young leafage, with a gardener’s art-- To plant her queen of all his garden close, And make his varying fancy wind and dew, Cloud, rain, and sunshine for one woman’s heart. BETWEEN TWO RAINS It is a silver space between two rains; The lulling storm has given to the day An hour of windless air and riven grey; The world is drained of color; light remains. Beyond the curving shore a gull complains; Unceasing, on the bastions of the bay, With gleam of shields and veer of vaporing spray The long seas fall, the grey tide wars and wanes. It is a silver space between two rains: A mood too sweet for tears, for joy too pale-- What stress has swept or nears us, thou and I? This hour a mist of light is on the plains, And seaward fares again with litten sail Our laden ship of dreams adown the sky. THE MESSAGE[3] So might it brush my cheek with errant wings, So might it speak with thrilling touch and light Of answering eyes, of dim, unuttered things-- A moth from hidden gardens of the night. So, in a land of hills, where twilight lay, Might come a sudden bird-call to the ear, Across the canyons, faint and far away.... O Heart, how sweet ... half heard and wholly dear. BY THE HOSPITAL Who goes to meet the windy night With unseen comrades shouting by, Who grips a bough in swift delight To let it dip and loose and fly; Who runs for rest that running gives, Runs till his throbbing muscles speak; Who bends to feel how keenly lives The joyous grass beneath his cheek--