Chapter III

“A wing,” some say;
Some answer, “Love”;
And some say, “Night
And Sleep.”
But I?
I do not know.

LAST DAWN

When that last dawn comes, what will it be?--
A plume of fire on a cloud of gray;
A shrouded ship in a cocoon sea;
A mountain peak with its one gold star;
A bird’s nest swung by a silver wind;
Or the curve of an arm with its cradled child?
What will that last dawn be?

And God, what will God be?
The plume of fire or the mist-spun ship,
The mountain peak with its signal star,
The nest blown wide for the coming day,
Or the child in the human passionate arms?...
I wonder what God will be
And who shall see!

EVEN AS HERE

This is the end to which I come,--
I who have loved beauty all my days:
This grief of tortured flowers,
This prison box devised by men,
These nails and hasps and graven plates,
This narrow room, these curious eyes,
This tolling bell,
These mumbled words miscalled of God,
This brutal stone!

O, rather, Love,
Lay me on sweet-burning cedar,
Free, fragrant with beaded pitch where the clean axe cut,
With flame that leaps from singing heart of wood to mine!
Then cast me as ash upon the quilted colors of the autumn hills,
And I shall be pale lace of wind
To kiss your lips, your eyes once more!

Or strew me on water
Till I know again its slipping hands of dream,
And see its golden deep of sand shadowed with memories,
And feel its cradling touch soft as your moving breast
In closeness beyond the reach of words!

Or toss me as a feather
To some little shepherd moon and flock of stars
Where, in the slow-rolling of prodigious hours
Round the blown crust of other worlds,
Space beyond space,
I shall find you,--even as here!

AGAIN?

_To my Home on Lake Champlain_

Shall I come again?
Again to see the reeds,
Yellowing now?

_“Bye and bye!_
_Bye and bye!”_
_Lake rushes cry._

Shall I come again
To these willow leaves
Falling now?

_Their joy was brief!_
_The willow leaf_
_Knows grief._

Shall I breathe again
Gray balsam dripping amber
On the mould?

_What knows the year_
_Of any fear,--_
_Of any amber tear!_

_September 27, 1920._

End of Project Gutenberg's Willow Pollen, by Jeannette Augustus Marks