Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land Between their place and ours? Like the forgetfulness Of the work-a-day world made visible, Here in the provinces of life, A great white moth fades miserably past. Thro' the trees in the strange dead night, Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead XXIII To P. A. G. HERE they trysted, here they strayed, And the morn was merry June. 'Death is fleet, Life is sweet,' Sang the blackbird in the may; And the hour with flying feet, While they dreamed, was yesterday. Many a maid and many a man Found the leafage close and boon; Many a destiny began— O, the morn was merry June! Dead and gone, dead and gone, (Hark the blackbird in the may !), Life and Death went hurrying on, Cheek on cheek-and where were they? Dust on dust engendering dust In the leafage fresh and boon, Man and maid fulfil their trust Still the morn turns merry June. Mother Life, Father Death (O, the blackbird in the may !), Each the other's breath for breath, Fleet the times of the world away. XXIV To A. C. NOT to the staring Day, For all the importunate questionings he pursues Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude, Over His gift of live, life-giving air, Yield of their huge, unutterable selves. Voluminous, a labyrinth of life, They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams That haunt their leafier privacies, Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still And frolicsome freaks Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs. But at the word Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night, Night of the many secrets, whose effect- Essential, and, their bodily presences Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring Wild hands of warning in the face Of some inevitable advance of doom; Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing As in some monstrous market-place, They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime, In that old speech their forefathers Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard |