XXIV

Only a freakish wisp of hair?— Nay, but its wildest, its most frolic whorl Stands for a slim, enamoured, sweet-fleshed girl! And so, a tangle of dream and charm and fun,

Its every crook a promise and a snare, Its every dowle, or genially gadding Or crisply curled, Heartening and madding,

Empales a novel and peculiar world Of right, essential fantasies, And shining acts as yet undone, But in these wonder-working days

Soon, soon to ask our sovran Lord, the Sun, For countenance and praise, As of the best his storying eye hath seen, And his vast memory can parallel,

Among the darling victories — Beneficent, beautiful, inexpressible — Of life on time!— Yet have they flashed and been

In millions, since‘ twas his to bring The heaven-creating Spring, An angel of adventure and delight, In all her beauty and all her strength and worth,

With her great guerdons of romance and spright, And those high needs that fill the flesh with might, Home to the citizens of this good, green earth. Poor souls — they have but time and place

To play their transient little play And sing their singular little song, Ere they are rushed away Into the antient, undisclosing Night;

And none is left to tell of the clear eyes That filled them with God's grace, And turned the iron skies to skies of gold! None; but the sweetest She herself grows old —

Grows old, and dies; And, but for such a lovely snatch of hair As this, none — none could guess, or know That She was kind and fair,

And he had nights and days beyond compare — How many dusty and silent years ago!