My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass
Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled
Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold
Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass,
And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass
Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold
Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold:
So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas!
It holds but visions, unsubstantial things.
Transient, momentary; and the feet
Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole.
Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings
That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet
With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.
NOON
TO ANITA FOCKE
Charmed into silence lay
The forest, dimly lit;
No wind that summer day
Moved the least leaf of it;
No choric branches stirred
Its calm profound and deep,
Nor voice of any bird,
But silence dreamed like sleep.
Like dew upon the grass
It fell upon my soul,
Loosed it to soar, and pass
Beyond the stars' control.
Vague memories it woke,
Shapes far too frail for touch;
And then the silence broke,
Lest I should learn too much.