Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/47

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My wand is she that smites
Open the prophet's wall;
My arrow in the sun,
Sped for no fall;
My bird along the heights
Where I shall never run.

II
She sleeps now.
Her hair, duskily nursing her cheek,
Fills me with strange music,
Like the dark flowing water of snow-fields.
Her brow, that was mere, frail porcelain,
Holding a child's few treasures,
In a pale, prophetic expanse
Over dreams that bide their vast venture.

I gaze long at her face,
Thinking at last I shall know her;
For awake she is always hiding
In ripples and pools of change.
Waves of April flow around her,
And she is my willow witch,
Weaving her web of winds
Above the blue water;
But she lifts her eyes,
Like two hours of June,
And is so nearly a rose
That to-morrow the dawn will be lapping
Gold from her open heart;
Then a laugh like Christmas day
Shuffles the seasons,
And I see chrysanthemums in a Southern garden;
White breasts in the dusk.

But now she sleeps; no stirs;
Stirs with the covetous fever
That armoured in silence creeps
By the wariest watch of lovers,

32

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