Across my wall, from the far-off moon, A rain of fire is thrown . . .

There are houses hanging above the stars, And stars hung under a sea: And a wind from the long blue vault of time Waves my curtains for me . . .

I wait in the dark once more, Swung between s.p.a.ce and s.p.a.ce: Before my mirror I lift my hands And face my remembered face.

Is it I who stand in a question here, Asking to know my name? . . .

It is I, yet I know not whither I go, Nor why, nor whence I came.

It is I, who awoke at dawn And arose and descended the stair, Conceiving a G.o.d in the eye of the sun, -- In a woman's hands and hair.

It is I whose flesh is grey with the stones I builded into a wall: With a mournful melody in my brain Of a tune I cannot recall . . .

There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss; And the sharp-pained shadow of death.

I remember a rain-drop on my cheek, -- A wind like a fragrant breath . . .

And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven; And the heavens are dark and steep . . .

I will forget these things once more In the silence of sleep.

A Thrush in the Moonlight. [Witter Bynner]

In came the moon and covered me with wonder, Touched me and was near me and made me very still.

In came a rush of song, like rain after thunder, Pouring importunate on my window-sill.

I lowered my head, I hid it, I would not see nor hear, The birdsong had stricken me, had brought the moon too near.

But when I dared to lift my head, night began to fill With singing in the darkness. And then the thrush grew still.

And the moon came in, and silence, on my window-sill.

Orchard. [H. D.]

I saw the first pear As it fell -- The honey-seeking, golden-banded, The yellow swarm Was not more fleet than I, (Spare us from loveliness) And I fell prostrate Crying: You have flayed us With your blossoms, Spare us the beauty Of fruit-trees.

The honey-seeking Paused not, The air thundered their song, And I alone was prostrate.

O rough-hewn G.o.d of the orchard, I bring you an offering -- Do you, alone unbeautiful, Son of the G.o.d, Spare us from loveliness:

These fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, Grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken figs And quinces untouched, I bring you as offering.

Heat. [H. D.]

O wind, rend open the heat, Cut apart the heat, Rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop Through this thick air -- Fruit cannot fall into heat That presses up and blunts The points of pears And rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat -- Plough through it, Turning it on either side Of your path.

Madonna of the Evening Flowers. [Amy Lowell]

All day long I have been working, Now I am tired.

I call: "Where are you?"

But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.

The house is very quiet, The sun shines in on your books, On your scissors and thimble just put down, But you are not there.

Suddenly I am lonely: Where are you?

I go about searching.

Then I see you, Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur, With a basket of roses on your arm.

You are cool, like silver, And you smile.

I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.

You tell me that the peonies need spraying, That the columbines have overrun all bounds, That the pyrus j.a.ponica should be cut back and rounded.

You tell me these things.

But I look at you, heart of silver, White heart-flame of polished silver, Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur.

And I long to kneel instantly at your feet, While all about us peal the loud, sweet 'Te Deums' of the Canterbury bells.

The New G.o.d. [James Oppenheim]

Ye morning-glories, ring in the gale your bells, And with dew water the walk's dust for the burden-bearing ants: Ye swinging spears of the larkspur, open your wells of gold And pay your honey-tax to the hummingbird . . .

O now I see by the opening of blossoms, And of bills of the hungry fledglings, And the bright travel of sun-drunk insects, Morning's business is afoot: Earth is busied with a million mouths!

Where goes eaten gra.s.s and thrush-snapped dragonfly?

Creation eats itself, to sp.a.w.n in swarming sun-rays . . .

Bull and cricket go to it: life lives on life . . .

But O, ye flame-daubed irises, and ye hosts of gnats, Like a well of light moving in morning's light, What is this garmented animal that comes eating and drinking among you?

What is this upright one, with spade and with shears?

He is the visible and the invisible, Behind his mouth and his eyes are other mouth and eyes . . .

Thirster after visions He sees the flowers to their roots and the Earth back through its silent ages: He parts the sky with his gaze: He flings a magic on the hills, clothing them with Upanishad music, Peopling the valley with dreamed images that vanished in Greece millenniums back; And in the actual morning, out of longing, shapes on the hills To-morrow's golden grandeur . . .