The sky Is that beautiful old parchment In which the sun And the moon Keep their diary. To read it all, One must be a linguist More learned than Father Wisdom; And a visionary More clairvoyant than Mother Dream. But to feel it, One must be an apostle: One who is more than intimate In having been, always, The only confidant -- Like the earth Or the sky. The Runner in the Skies. [James Oppenheim] Who is the runner in the skies, With her blowing scarf of stars, And our Earth and sun hovering like bees about her blossoming heart? Her feet are on the winds, where space is deep, Her eyes are nebulous and veiled, She hurries through the night to a far lover. Evening Song of Senlin. [Conrad Aiken] It is moonlight. Alone in the silence I ascend my stairs once more, While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight, Crash on a white sand shore. It is moonlight. The garden is silent. I stand in my room alone. Across my wall, from the far-off moon, A rain of fire is thrown . . . There are houses hanging above the stars, And stars hung under a sea: And a wind from the long blue vault of time Waves my curtains for me . . . I wait in the dark once more, Swung between space and space: Before my mirror I lift my hands And face my remembered face. Is it I who stand in a question here, Asking to know my name? . . . It is I, yet I know not whither I go, Nor why, nor whence I came. It is I, who awoke at dawn And arose and descended the stair, Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun, -- In a woman's hands and hair. It is I whose flesh is grey with the stones I builded into a wall: With a mournful melody in my brain Of a tune I cannot recall . . . There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss; And the sharp-pained shadow of death. I remember a rain-drop on my cheek, -- A wind like a fragrant breath . . . And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven; And the heavens are dark and steep . . . I will forget these things once more In the silence of sleep. A Thrush in the Moonlight. [Witter Bynner] In came the moon and covered me with wonder, Touched me and was near me and made me very still. In came a rush of song, like rain after thunder, Pouring importunate on my window-sill. I lowered my head, I hid it, I would not see nor hear, The birdsong had stricken me, had brought the moon too near. But when I dared to lift my head, night began to fill With singing in the darkness. And then the thrush grew still. And the moon came in, and silence, on my window-sill. Orchard. [H. D.] I saw the first pear As it fell -- The honey-seeking, golden-banded, The yellow swarm Was not more fleet than I, (Spare us from loveliness) And I fell prostrate Crying: You have flayed us With your blossoms, Spare us the beauty Of fruit-trees. The honey-seeking Paused not, The air thundered their song, And I alone was prostrate. O rough-hewn God of the orchard, I bring you an offering -- Do you, alone unbeautiful, Son of the god, Spare us from loveliness: