The child pursuing lizards in the grass,
The sage, who deep in central nature delves,
The preacher watching for the evil hour to pass,
All these are souls that fly from their dread selves.
The squirrel yonder, hushed and wise
Forswears his wandering ’mong the pine,
And wherefore, then, should thy grey eyes
Wander away from mine?
The talking winds have found their home,
Eve-soothed in some far leafy rest,
And wherefore should thy bright brow roam
Madonna from my breast?
A little while and—red eve dies—
Our love shall be of yesterday,
Ah, let us kiss each other’s eyes,
And laugh our love away.
“I laughed upon the lips of Sophocles,
I go as soft as folly; I am Fate.”
This heard I where among the apple trees,
Wild indolence and music have no date.