Let me grow lovely, growing old--
So many fine things do:
Laces, and ivory, and gold,
And silks need not be new;
I shall be loved as quiet things
Are loved--white pigeons in the sun,
Curled yellow leaves that whisper down
One after one;
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons- all cold, and dull and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;
And other days they drift and shine - such free and flying things!
He drew a straight line
Across the dirt floor:
Within, it was death-still--
Without, was a roar
Dropp’d feather from the wings of God
My little songs and snatches are,
So light He does not hear them fall
As He goes by, from star to star.
My life is a tree,
Yoke-fellow of the earth;
By roots too deep for remembrance,
My little daughter is a tea-rose,
Satin to the touch,
Wine to the lips,
And a faint, delirious perfume.
The flame of my life burns low
Under the cluttered days,
Like a fire of leaves.
But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke