Page:Edgar Allan Poe - a centenary tribute.pdf/24

 And bent old trees, And companies of small black bees; Of gardens at the dusk, Where down the hush, A thrush His heartbreak spills; Of daffodils By farmhouse doors a windy sight, A yellow gust driven down the light.

Nor his the note That trumpeted of war, Of ancient creed; Strange, innocent, remote His reed A wind along the hollows of an echoing shore: Each day was but a pool within the grass, A haunted space, Where saw he as in glass, But Wonder, with her dim, drowned face.

For Wonder was his kin, His very twin; Blood of his blood indeed, And steadfast to his need;— The ecstasies of cloud and sky; The cry out in the dark; The half lit spark That lures from earth to star; The fleeting footsteps far and far; The trailing skirts so nigh, so nigh, These drew he from their ghostly mesh And made them flesh; We reach dull hands, for we would know; They fade; they go; Yea, he and they together, Into another weather.