Under her arm till evening,
Then sallies forth to war.
She pours the owls upon us.
They hoot with horrid noise
And eat the naughty mousie-girls
And wicked mousie-boys.
So climb the moonvine every night
And to the owl-queen pray:
Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees
For her to take away.
And never squeak, my children,
Nor gnaw the smoke-house door:
The owl-queen then will love us
And send her birds no more.
Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,Fly by my path till you have made me whole!
Sitting at Prince Siddartha’s feet to knowThe foolishness of gold and love and station,The gospel of the Great Renunciation,The ragged cloak, the staff, the rain and sun,The beggar’s life, with far Nirvana gleaming:Lord, make us Buddhas, dreaming.
Follow the plough with a yokel tread.I would be part of the Indian corn,Walking the rows with the plumes o’erhead.I would be one with the lavish earth,Eating the bee-stung apples red:Walking where lambs walk on the hills;By oak-grove paths to the pools be led.I would be one with the dark-bright nightWhen sparkling skies and the…
Hatching to-morrow night.And how the little boys will watchWith shouting and delightTo see him break the shell and stretchAnd creep across the sky.The boys will laugh. The little girls,I fear, may hide and cry.Yet gentle will the griffin be,Most decorous and fat,And walk up to the milky wayAnd lap it like a cat.
Ranged where the locomotives singAnd the prairie flowers lie low:—The tossing, blooming, perfumed grassIs swept away by the wheat,Wheels and wheels and wheels spin byIn the spring that still is sweet.But the flower-fed buffaloes of the springLeft us, long ago.They gore no more, they bellow no more,They trundle around the hills no more:—With the Blackfeet,…
Just eight years oldWith marvellous dark hair.Younger than Dante found youWhen you turnedHis heart into the wayThat found the heavenly stair.Perhaps we must be strangers.I confessMy soul this hour is Dante’s,And your careShould be for dollsWhose painted hands caressYour marvellous dark hair.Romance, with moonflower faceAnd morning eyes,And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesiesThe canticles of…
