My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings, So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings, As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails, Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,-- You gleam as a dream, by my window's light, My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night.
From the velvet screening of a great gray cloud The moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips-- Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips, Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars; You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night.
O winged brother on the harebell, stay-- Was God's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? _Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray-- He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day._
Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! I will go back now to the world of men. Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.
O, little bird, you sing As if all months were June; Pray tell me ere you go The secret of your tune?
"I have no hidden word To tell, nor mystic art; I only know I sing The song within my heart!"
_Old gardens have a language of their own, And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart. A goodly place it is and primly spaced, With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom. Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales Of one who loved the gardens Dante loved. Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool And flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads To blaze of rhododendrons banked in green. Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up Against the lustrous grape-vines trellised high To pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide First snowdrops and the bravest violets. A place of solitudes whose silences Enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._