ITHE VINE
TO screen this depth of shade that sleeps,
Beyond the garden's shine,
On José's careful strings there creeps
A little slender vine.
Beyond the garden's shine,
On José's careful strings there creeps
A little slender vine.
José is kind . . . but age is cold:
My laughter meets his sigh.
The house is old the garden old—
Oh, young, the vine and I!
My laughter meets his sigh.
The house is old the garden old—
Oh, young, the vine and I!
I love the web of light it weaves
Across my half-drawn thread;
It's speech to me of waking leaves,
While José hears his Dead.
Across my half-drawn thread;
It's speech to me of waking leaves,
While José hears his Dead.
So, ever reaching, tendril-fine,
My eager visions run;
So, as the long day passes, twine
My thoughts, shot through with sun.
My eager visions run;
So, as the long day passes, twine
My thoughts, shot through with sun.
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