Excerpt from Poems

In Pierrot's Garden.

I

There's a lark that's drunken with the daedal moon,
And I sing to the shy-fledged singer,
Lonesomest thing in the world but one,
He bids me wait and linger.

Hush, little brother your heart is fire,
Hush, little one and forget,
He will not tarry, but wings him higher,
And my eyes are wet, are wet.

II.

This is the way the moon comes up
From under the glimmering fallow fields,
First but the rim of a silver cup,
Where the farthest twilight primrose yields
Her earthly beauty up,

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