Part 13 (1/2)

REST AT NOON

Now with a re-created mind Back to the world my way I find;

Fed by the hills one little hour, By meadow-slope and beechen-bower,

Cedar serene, benignant larch, h.o.a.r mountains and the azure arch

Where dazzling vapors make vast sport In G.o.d's profound and s.p.a.cious court.

The universe played with me. Earth Harped to high heaven her sweetest mirth;

The clouds built castles for my pleasure, And airy legions without measure

Flung, spindrift-wise, across the sky To thrill my heart once and to die.

I have held converse with large things; For cherubim with cooling wings

Brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view, Called through the arras of the blue

And clapped their hands: ”These veils uproll!

And see the comrades of your soul!”

The very flowers that ringed my bed Their little ”G.o.d-be-with-you” said,

And every insect, bird and bee Brought cool cups from eternity.

HERMANN HAGEDORN

ORDER

It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush: The petals are spread for a sunning; The little gold fly is scrubbing his face; The spider is nervously running To fasten a thread; the night-going moth Is folding his velvet perfection; And presently over the clover will come The bee on a tour of inspection.

PAUL SCOTT MOWRER

THE NIGHT-MOTH

My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, So swift in the s.h.i.+fting 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 s.h.i.+ning 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.

MARION COUTHOUY SMITH

THE b.u.t.tERFLY

O winged brother on the harebell, stay-- Was G.o.d'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!