I dreamed of Sappho on a summer night. Her nightingales were singing in the trees Beside the castled river; and the wind Fell like a woman's fingers on my cheek....
The blue night, like an angel, came into the room,-- Came through the open window from the silent sky Down trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear room As if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh....
When I am only fit to go to bed, Or hobble out to sit within the sun, Ring down the curtain, say the play is done, And the last petals of the poppy shed!
This is not sadness in the wood; The yellowbird Flits joying through the solitude, By no thought stirred Save of his little duskier mate And rompings jolly.
The body is no prison where we lie Shut out from our true heritage of sun; It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly. Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon,...
Make me over, mother April, When the sap begins to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quivers, To revive the days that were,...
Oh, not for us the easy mirth Of men that never roam! The crackling of the narrow hearth, The cabined joys of home! Keep your tame, regulated glee, O pale protected State!...