She has muddied the day's oozes With her petulant feet; Scared the clouds that floated As sea-birds they were, Slow on the coerule Lulls of the air, Lulled on the luminous Levels of air: She has chidden in a pet All her stars from her; Now they wander loose and sigh Through the turbid blue, Now they wander, weep, and cry-- Yea, and I too-- "Where are you, sweet July, Where are you?" Who hath beheld her footprints, Or the pathway she goes? Tell me, wind, tell me, wheat, Which of you knows? Sleeps she swathed in the flushed Arctic Night of the rose? Or lie her limbs like Alp-glow On the lily's snows? Gales, that are all-visitant, Find the runaway; And for him who findeth her (I do charge you say) I will throw largesse of broom Of this summer's mintage, I will broach a honey-bag Of the bee's best vintage. Breezes, wheat, flowers sweet, None of them knows! How then shall we lure her back From the way she goes? For it were a shameful thing, Saw we not this comer Ere Autumn camp upon the fields Red with rout of Summer. When the bird quits the cage, We set the cage outside, With seed and with water, And the door wide, Haply we may win it so Back to abide. Hang her cage of earth out O'er Heaven's sunward wall, Its four gates open, winds in watch By reinèd cars at all; Relume in hanging hedgerows The rain-quenched blossom, And roses sob their tears out On the gale's warm heaving bosom; Shake the lilies till their scent Over-drip their rims, That our runaway may see We do know her whims: Sleek the tumbled waters out For her travelled limbs; Strew and smooth blue night thereon, There will--O not doubt her!-- The lovely sleepy lady lie, With all her stars about her! ANY SAINT His shoulder did I hold Too high that I, o'erbold Weak one, Should lean thereon. But He a little hath Declined His stately path And my Feet set more high; That the slack arm may reach His shoulder, and faint speech Stir His unwithering hair. And bolder now and bolder I lean upon that shoulder, So dear He is and near. And with His aureole The tresses of my soul Are blent In wished content. Yea, this too gentle Lover Hath flattering words to move her To pride By His sweet side. Ah, Love! somewhat let be! Lest my humility Grow weak When Thou dost speak! Rebate Thy tender suit, Lest to herself impute Some worth Thy bride of earth!