Viii

A twilight fire-fly may suggest How flames the fire that feeds the sun: "A crooked figure may attest In little space a million."

But this faint-figured verse, that dresses With flowers the bones of one bare month, Of all it would say scarce expresses In crooked ways a millionth.

A fire-fly tenders to the father Of fires a tribute something worth: My verse, a shard-borne beetle rather, Drones over scarce-illumined earth.

Some inches round me though it brighten With light of music-making thought, The dark indeed it may not lighten, The silence moves not, hearing nought.

Only my heart is eased with hearing, Only mine eyes are soothed with seeing, A face brought nigh, a footfall nearing, Till hopes take form and dreams have being.