I am a shepherd of those sheep That climb a wall by night, One after one, until I sleep, Or the black pane goes white. Because of which I cannot see A flock upon a hill, But doubts come tittering up to me That should by day be still. And childish griefs I have outgrown Into my eyes are thrust, Till my dull tears go dropping down Like lead into the dust. THREE SONGS FROM THE LAMP AND THE BELL I Oh, little rose tree, bloom! Summer is nearly over. The dahlias bleed, and the phlox is seed. Nothing’s left of the clover. And the path of the poppy no one knows. I would blossom if I were a rose. Summer, for all your guile, Will brown in a week to Autumn, And launched leaves throw a shadow below Over the brook’s clear bottom,-- And the chariest bud the year can boast Be brought to bloom by the chastening frost. II Beat me a crown of bluer metal; Fret it with stones of a foreign style: The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while. Weave me a robe of richer fibre; Pattern its web with a rare device. Give away to the child of a neighbor This gold gown I was glad in twice. But buy me a singer to sing one song-- Song about nothing--song about sheep-- Over and over, all day long; III Rain comes down And hushes the town. And where is the voice that I heard crying? Snow settles Over the nettles. Where is the voice that I heard crying? Sand at last On the drifting mast. And where is the voice that I heard crying? Earth now On the busy brow. And where is the voice that I heard crying? THE WOOD ROAD If I were to walk this way Hand in hand with Grief, I should mark that maple-spray Coming into leaf. I should note how the old burrs Rot upon the ground. Yes, though Grief should know me hers While the world goes round, It could not in truth be said This was lost on me; A rock-maple showing red, Burrs beneath a tree. FEAST I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want. Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger; I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger. SOUVENIR Just a rainy day or two In a windy tower, That was all I had of you-- Saving half an hour. Marred by greeting passing groups In a cinder walk, Near some naked blackberry hoops Dim with purple chalk. I remember three or four Things you said in spite, And an ugly coat you wore, Plaided black and white. Just a rainy day or two And a bitter word. Why do I remember you As a singing bird? SCRUB