Page:The Yellow Book - 13.djvu/213

Rh

As a sphynx-moth with shivering wings
 * Hangs over the thyme in the garden

But an instant, then fairyward brings
 * The honey he gathers for guerdon;

So you the oases of life
 * Just touched with your frayed, rapid wings,

Poor poet, and drew from the strife
 * The peculiar honey that clings

To your magical measures and ways,
 * As they sway with the moods of the soul,

Semi-conscious, through haze, in amaze,
 * Making on toward a dim distant goal.

"Be always a poet or saint"—
 * Poor Lilian was saint and was poet,

But not always for sometimes we faint—
 * Then he must forget that we know it;

In iris and opal forget—
 * His iris, his bow in the sky,

Fickle bow for the storm, and that yet
 * Was his only storm-bow to steer by.

Good-bye, then, poor poet, good-bye!
 * You will not be long there alone:

Very soon for your help we shall cry,
 * Lost souls in a country unknown.

Rh