Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/182

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse With the hope of hands, For the fall of feet, Though no pilgrim bands Find our narrow street:

Would she from the loom Rise, remembering so How the heart must roam? Then—would she let me go?

There's one that I once loved so much
 * I am no more the same.

I give thanks for that transforming touch.
 * I tell you not his name.

He has become a sign to me
 * For flowers and for fire.

For song he is a sign to me
 * And for the broken lyre.

And I have known him in a book
 * And never touched his hand.

And he is dead—I need not look
 * For him through his green land.