At times thou art the spacious light and air Of all this tranquil morning garden, where Sinuous paths wind in the blue haze Like swans upon the deep blue water-ways. At other times thou art the shivering wind Exultant, cool, Who passes, running fingers light and kind Along the clear brow of the pool. When with thy two hands thou touchest me, I feel the brushing of cool leaves Against my cheek; When midday cleaves The dimness, all the shadows secretly Meditate the words that thou didst speak. So all the hours pass by some sweet grace Of thine, into my heart; And when at last the wan night comes apace And rapt in sleep and still, apart, Thy spirit lies, Feel thro' thy closed eyelids how mine eyes Dwell on thee with a love beyond compare, More humble and more clinging than a prayer. VII Oh, let it knock upon our door, That hand that taps with futile touch; We have our joy, the rest--what can it offer more? The rest with futile, listless touch? Let them pass our door, The wearied, mirthless joys With their tinsel and their toys. Let laughter rise and sound and disappear; The crowd move on with million voices clear. The moment is so fair with light In this garden all about; The moment is so rare with new-born light Deep within us and without! Ah, 'tis the part of wisdom, dear; No longer seek we those who go By the long highway drear, With heavy feet and singing low. But stay we here, contented as of old, Though night itself strike out the sky above, Loving within us the idea we hold Of this most wondrous, steadfast thing, our love. VIII I have given all my heart to thee As simply as a child Giving a dewy flower, fresh and wild; I pressed it to my lips and gave it thee-- I broke the flower's stem with burning hand; Speak not, for words may hurt; but with thine eyes Speak to my soul that it may understand. The flow'r that is my heart, my sacrifice, Tells thee quite simply that one must Confide in virgin love, as children trust In God who is so good and great and wise. Let the bold spirit revel in the hills In wilful dalliance and vanity, But let us worship in simplicity The very truth that holds our hearts and wills; Nor can love be more fully said Than when soul speaks to soul at night, and overhead The innumerable silent stars like eyes Burn each on each, A speaking that surpasses speech, Amid the barkening silence of the skies. IX The youthful spring with wondrous might Bursts out in all its clarity Upon our wistful words and sight, And bathes them deep in purity. The wind and the slender lips of the flowers, Trembling, scatter abroad in showers Their syllables of light.