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

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My wand is she that smitesOpen the prophet's wall;My arrow in the sun,Sped for no fall;My bird along the heightsWhere I shall never run.
IIShe 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 expanseOver dreams that bide their vast venture.
I gaze long at her face,Thinking at last I shall know her;For awake she is always hidingIn ripples and pools of change.Waves of April flow around her,And she is my willow witch,Weaving her web of windsAbove the blue water;But she lifts her eyes,Like two hours of June,And is so nearly a roseThat to-morrow the dawn will be lappingGold from her open heart;Then a laugh like Christmas dayShuffles 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 feverThat armoured in silence creepsBy the wariest watch of lovers,

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