_Will you not, dare you not, Is it never meet? I will never let them know---- _ _Sweet, my Spirit, pardon me! I had forgot that stars are new And that it is the dawn of earth._ Doors and garments and spells I must make for myself. Among ten thousand of us I must find silence. HALF THOUGHT I saw Fair Yellow in the west, Fair Yellow in the air, The sand, the corn, a bird’s breast, A woman’s hair. At night My little room burst into light---- Fair Yellow had come there. Fair Yellow is a being. For when I said her name I found a way of seeing Her as she came. O how Do our dull senses fail us now And leave us in some elemental shame! There is so much to see and say If we could find the way.... UMBRA The birds of the air are about me For I am the conjuring one; How they dip and hover and circle Through hyaline regions of sun. One has a wing like a petal, One wears a feather of flame, Silk and snow is the breast of another With a word like a flute for a name. How they sing ... in the morning, Tilting soft the light beat of their flight; How their passionate chorales give cadence Down the ample arcade of the night. Yes, the songs of the air are about me Sweet ... clear ... but they sing Of the light of another morning In the deep of another Spring. WRAITHS Who hears the answer when I cry? O quiet hours and empty blue---- You? But the echoful air beats back no sigh. Who is glad of the love that I give the green? O haunted hollow in tide of leaves, Who weaves Delight of mine on the flowery screen? Who harbours that little straying ghost Of our thought for each other before we knew Love true? Warm, warm in my heart and never lost. HALF THOUGHT Believe not Sorrow, her who brings Confession of the folded wings, But seek you, burning, some frail birth That sings. It is her spirit beating through. Handful of earth, It may be breath to you! WIND SONG Horn of the morning! And the little night pipings fail. The day is launched like a hollow ship With the sun for a sail. The way is wide and blue and lone With all the miles inviolate, Save for the swinging stars they’ve sown And a thistle of cloud remote and blown. O I passion for something nearer than these! How shall I know that this live thing is I With only the morning for proof and the sky? I long for a music more dear to its keys, For a touch that shall teach me the new sureties, Give me some griefs and some loyalties And a child’s mouth on my own....