I

Here a vine, there a voice, Then a violin; All the quiet is astir Like a flute within.

Here a light, there a leaf, Little boughs that lean; And the people who move by Wonder what they mean.

“Look,” they say, “there a star Watching in a well; Line and green and melody----” Then they try to tell.

O why ask what they mean? What is there to win? Have we not the light, the leaf And the violin?