Who knows before what inner shrine She eats with them the bread and wine? Poor waif! One of the sacred few That madly sought the best they knew! Dear -- let me lean my cheek to-night Close, close to yours. Ah, that is right. How warm and near! At last I see One beauty shines for thee and me. So let us love and understand -- Whose hearts are hidden in God's hand. And we will cherish your brief Spring And all its fragile flowering. God loves all prettiness, and on this Surely his angels lay their kiss. A Faun in Wall Street. [John Myers O'Hara] What shape so furtive steals along the dim Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June; This day of rest, when all the roses swoon In Attic vales where dryads wait for him? What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim That lured him here this golden afternoon; Ways where the dusk has fallen oversoon In the deep canyon, torrentless and grim? Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies Are fanes men rear to other deities; Far to the east the haunted woodland lies, And cloudless still, from cyclad-dotted seas, Hymettus and the hills of Hellas rise. The Mystic. [Witter Bynner] By seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In clusters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine, When, "Hark!" you said, -- "Was that a bell Or a bubbling spring we heard?" But I was wise and closed my eyes And listened to a bird; For as summer leaves are bent and shake With singers passing through, So moves in me continually The winged breath of you. You tasted from a single vine And took from that your fill -- But I inclined to every kind, All seven on one hill. The Cloud. [Josephine Preston Peabody] The islands called me far away, The valleys called me home. The rivers with a silver voice Drew on my heart to come. The paths reached tendrils to my hair From every vine and tree. There was no refuge anywhere Until I came to thee. There is a northern cloud I know, Along a mountain crest; And as she folds her wings of mist, So I could make my rest. There is no chain to bind her so Unto that purple height; And she will shine and wander, slow, Slow, with a cloud's delight. Would she begone? She melts away, A heavenly joyous thing. Yet day will find the mountain white, White-folded with her wing. As you may see, but half aware If it be late or soon, Soft breathing on the day-time air, The fair forgotten Moon. And though love cannot bind me, Love, -- Ah no! -- yet I could stay Maybe, with wings forever spread, -- Forever, and a day. The Thought of her. [Richard Hovey]