Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/72

 A wilding skylark sudden dropt to earth Along the last low sunbeam yellow-moted,— Athrob with joy— There pushes here, a little golden Boy, Still gazing with great eyes: And wonder-wise, All fragrancy, all valor silver-throated, My daughterling, my swan. My Alison.

Closer than homing lambs against the bars At folding-time, that crowd, all mother-warm, They crowd, they cling, they wreathe;— And thick as sparkles of the thronging stars, Their kisses swarm.

O Rose of Being at whose heart I breathe. Fold over, hold me fast In the dim Eden of a blinding kiss. And lightning heart's desire, be still at last. Heart can no more,— Life can no more Than this.