So many waxen prayers you heard! If I should heap your altar high With boughs that knew the nesting bird, With flowers that bloomed against the sky, And let my wondering soul ascend In vivid question, swift surmise-- I think your shadowy face would bend, And look at me with startled eyes. III THE GARDEN They planted lilies where they might, A drift of Vestals slim and tall, That lined these winding paths with white, That filled the court from wall to wall. They shrank from savage, splendid heat, As from their teasing fires of Hell-- Only when morns and eves were sweet They walked and liked their garden well. Slow moving through a pallid mist, Always in black, in black they came, With busy rosary on wrist ... And all the summer world aflame! I planted flowers that know the sun, I brought them in from field and stream, I passed not by the smallest one That pleased me with a yellow gleam; Then in a hidden chest I found The marvel of an old brocade-- Strange figures on an azure ground, With threads of crimson overlaid, And when the noon is fierce and bright, Along the garden, fold on fold, My silken splendor like a light I trail between the aisles of gold. IV Across José’s unending drone (Some ancient tale of arms and doom) There came a poignant sweetness blown From sleeping leagues of orange bloom. And lo! the steady candles blurred Like shining fishes in a net, And José’s kindly voice I heard-- “But little one, thine eyes are wet.” He vowed the tale had made me weep, Its shadowy woes in courtly speech, Nor knew they passed like wraiths of sleep The heart a vagrant wind could reach. How can I tell, whose fancy floats As swift and passionate impulse veers, What gust may sweep its roseleaf boats Adown a sudden tide of tears? V Where man has marred and nature yields, And never plant nor beast is free, Along the tame and trampled fields An old unrest has followed me. Now walk alone the night and I On foaming reaches curving stark, And battling with a windy sky The stormy moon is bright and dark. Facing the sea with streaming hair, My broken singing flung behind, Whipped by the keen exultant air Till lips must close and eyes are blind, Loving the sharp and cruel spray, The great waves thundering, might on might, The pagan heart must shout and sway, Tossed in the passion of the night. VI Oh, never wings the Sisters chide, Wild upward wings that shine and blur, Nor mourn they winds of eventide That bid the rhythmic garden stir, And yet this life I cannot still, This winged and restless strength of flight, That swings me down a singing hill Or answers to the calling night,