We come and go, as the breezes blow, But whence or where Hath ne'er been told in the legends old By the dreaming seer. The welcome rain to the parching plain And the languid leaves, The rattling hail on the burnished mail Of the serried sheaves, The silent snow on the wintry brow Of the aged year, Wends each his way in the track of day From a clouded sphere: But still as the fog in the dismal bog Where the shifting sheen Of the spectral lamp lights the marshes damp, With a flash unseen We drip through the night from the starlids bright, On the sleeping flowers, And deep in their breast is our perfumed rest Through the darkened hours: But again with the day we are up and away With our stolen dyes, To paint all the shrouds of the drifting clouds In the eastern skies. JOHN B. TABB SONNET It may be so; but let the unknown be. We, on this earth, are servants of the sun. Out of the sun comes all the quick in me, His golden touch is life to everyone. His power it is that makes us spin through space, His youth is April and his manhood bread, Beauty is but a looking on his face, He clears the mind, he makes the roses red. What he may be, who knows? But we are his, We roll through nothing round him, year by year, The withering leaves upon a tree which is Each with his greed, his little power, his fear. What we may be, who knows? But everyone Is dust on dust a servant of the sun. JOHN MASEFIELD CHARM: TO BE SAID IN THE SUN I reach my arms up, to the sky, And golden vine on vine Of sunlight showered wild and high, Around my brows I twine. I wreathe, I wind it everywhere, The burning radiancy Of brightness that no eye may dare, To be the strength of me. Come, redness of the crystalline, Come green, come hither blue And violet--all alive within, For I have need of you. Come honey-hue and flush of gold, And through the pallor run, With pulse on pulse of manifold New largess of the Sun! O steep the silence till it sing! O glories from the height, Come down, where I am garlanding With light, a child of light! JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY THE DIALS With fingers softer than the touch of death The sundial writes the passing of the day, The hours unfolding slow to twilight gray, The gleaming moments vanish in a breath. But sunny hours alone the sundial names; All unrecorded are the midnight spans And vain within the dusk the watcher scans The marble face; thereon no record flames.