THE SUPPLICANT LO, it is he! his eyes like stars agleam, His parted lips that droop with memories mute, His yearning hands that clasp the sacred lute. POSSESSION H art thou he, whose voice is melody, OH Whose soul is as a harp the eve-winds stir, That leafy sea, where thou hast all forgot, I RECOGNITION LEFT the toilsome streets and fared Unto the world of trees, The faces of men's windows glared Beyond the elbowed throngs I came I found no voice there raised to blame, Beneath the gloaming of a pine What greater loneliness was mine WITHIN the forest's close embrace, WITHIN My soul its kinsfolk met, Tall pines, with strings that interlace, The larches turned their breasts to me, Then to that parent-house I crept, I FOREST SOUND HEARD the twilight sounds that slip Within the awe-hushed wood, The sudden call of bird, the trip Of insect hardihood. I saw the poplar trees that glowed I felt upon my cheek the whir Of free, mysterious life, The half-hid wings of things that stir The breath of waters followed me, About me pressed, how unaware, Till driven from that Eden there A forest-voice roam I! |