THE listless beauty of the hour      When snow fell on the apple trees
     And the wood-ash gathered in the fire
     And we faced our first miseries¹.
 
     Then the sweeping² sunshine of noon
     When the mountains like chariot cars
     Were ranked to blue battle—and you and I
     Counted our scars.
 
     And then in a strange, grey hour
     We lay mouth to mouth, with your face
     Under mine like a star on the lake,
     And I covered the earth, and all space.
 
     The silent, drifting hours
     Of morn after morn
     And night drifting up to the night
     Yet no pathway worn.
 
     Your life, and mine, my love
     Passing on and on, the hate
     Fusing closer and closer with love
     Till at length they mate.
 
      THE CEARNE
SONG OF A MAN WHO HAS
     COME THROUGH
 
     NOT I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
     A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
     If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry
        me!
     If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a
        winged gift!
     If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am
        borrowed
     By............