AMBUSH

HERE is a little bird that wings.

THE

Across my crystal hour of morn, A termless undertone he sings, Muffled, and purposeless, and worn.

And listening now, it seems to me,
My heart is as that little bird,
Wayfaring in captivity,

With burden of a song unheard.

I

INTANGIBLE

KNOW a sound, so quiet, still,

It seemeth echo more than sound, Its curious, hushed insistency,

Lureth, like waters, winter-bound.

I know a light, so lambent, frail,
It scarcely seemeth light to me,
Fringed with a dwindling afterglow,
A saint's pale halo it might be.

I know a touch of pain, so vague,
It seemeth like a shadow-thing,
Beyond some outer reach of mine,
It lingereth, furtive, hungering.

I

THE STAFF

LEFT him where the roadways verge,
The friend whose silences were speech,

(We did not speak because the surge
Of silence drowned the words in each.)

I did not turn, but in the calm

I knew he waited there for me,
And that his touch upon my palm
A pilgrim's staff had grown to be.

THE QUIET ROOM

WITHIN the quiet room there is no strife,

WITHIN

Its still, cool walls bar in unfathomed life; I cannot hear the boom where the dread tide Of human breakers beats the farther side.

Within the quiet room there is no sign

Of tables spread to feed this soul of mine,
But while grim hunger crouches, like a beast,
I sit me down to silence as a feast.

SALVAGE

E took the flowers that Love gave,

НЕ

(Such pity in her eyes!)

He doubted not their balm might save

His soul's most dark emprise.

He thought Love's radiant hands had made
The garden whence they grew,

He did not know that Love may trade
Her petals wet with dew.