Page:Edgar Allan Poe - a centenary tribute.pdf/24

And bent old trees,
And companies of small black bees;
    Of gardens at the dusk,
Where down the hush,
A thrush
His heartbreak spills;
Of daffodils
By farmhouse doors a windy sight,
A yellow gust driven down the light.

Nor his the note
That trumpeted of war,
    Of ancient creed;
Strange, innocent, remote
    His reed
A wind along the hollows of an echoing shore:
    Each day was but a pool within the grass,
A haunted space,
    Where saw he as in glass,
But Wonder, with her dim, drowned face.

For Wonder was his kin,
His very twin;
Blood of his blood indeed,
And steadfast to his need;—
    The ecstasies of cloud and sky;
The cry out in the dark;
The half lit spark
That lures from earth to star;
The fleeting footsteps far and far;
    The trailing skirts so nigh, so nigh,
These drew he from their ghostly mesh
And made them flesh;
We reach dull hands, for we would know;
They fade; they go;
Yea, he and they together,
Into another weather.