Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/49

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   No, you rememberOur city fell; came tumbling to the grassWith all its palaces and domes,Not one note on another,Where he, the breathless builder, fluttered,Happy in ruin.
   Yes, he panted so?Tell you cool things?
   (Words, words!Running like water under leaves,That they may fall on painAnd make it less!)
   Cool, my heavenliest?Then shall we walk againBetween the winter and the cliffWhere green things clung?—the little venturers,Lustrous and shyly brave, that feed on shadeAnd tug at scornful bowldersTill they are gay and gentle?They were all there; the fronds and tresses;Fingers and baby's palm;The curling tufts, the plumelets proudly niched,And little unknown leavesThat make the cold their mother;The hearts and lances and unpious spires;The emerald gates to houses of the gnomes.The fairy tents that vanish at a name;Each greener than Spring's footprint when her trackIs bright as sea-wet beryl;Yet wearing like an outer soulA silvered breath of winter. ThereThey waited, magically caughtWithin a crystal smile. A place, we thought,Where one might listen, standing long,Thinking to hear some secretEarth tells but once to time.

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