I WATCH swift pictures flash and fade
On the closed curtains of my eyes,—
A bit of river green as jade
Under green skies;
A single bird that soars and dips
Remote; a young and secret moon
Stealing to kiss some flower's lips
Too shy for noon;
A pointing tree; a lifted hill,
Sun-misted with a golden ring,—
Were these once mine? And am I still
Remembering?
A path that wanders wistfully
With no beginning there nor here,
Nor special grace that it should be
So sharply dear,
Unless,— what if when every day
Is yesterday, with naught to borrow,
I may slip down this wistful way
Into to-morrow?