Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/128

 HE bindweed roots pierce down
 * Deeper than men do lie,

Laid in their dark-shut graves
 * Their slumbering kinsmen by.

Yet what frail thin-spun flowers
 * She casts into the air,

To breathe the sunshine, and
 * To leave her fragrance there.

But when the sweet moon comes,
 * Showering her silver down,

Half-wreathed in faint sleep,
 * They droop where they have blown.

So all the grass is set,
 * Beneath her trembling ray,

With buds that have been flowers,
 * Brimmed with reflected day.