In Arvia’S Room

For Her Cradle

I cannot tell you what you ask. But of my life to be You who are wise and know your speech, Tell me.

For Her Mirror

Look in the deep of me: What are we going to do? If I am I, as I am, Who in the world are you?

For a Comb of Ivory

Use me and think of soul and mind and wonder yet to be. This is the jest: Could soul touch soul if it were not for me?

For Her Doll’s House

Girl doll would be a silken flower and look as real flowers do; Boy doll would be a telephone and have the world speak through. The poet doll would like to be the doorbell with a tongue For other little dolls like bells most sensitively rung. The paper doll would be a queen, the Dinah doll a star, And all--how ignominious!--are only what they are.

For Her Candle-stick

Taper, winnow the world of its angles and where Were sharp things lay softness, Night-god of the air!

For the Chimney-place

I am the causeway to the upper places That the fire understands. I am the link with everything unspoken. How well I warm your hands.

For a Flower Pot

Call sweetness into being. Let it live in me. The seed, the soil, the sun and I Work with authority.

For the Telephone

I the absurdity Proving what cannot be. Come, when you talk with me Does it become you well To doubt a miracle?

Along Her Book-shelf

Lay one hand on us; but keep the other free to touch far things which are not far--tenderly.

Where Boughs Touch the Glass

They lap on the indoor shore, The waves of the leaf mere. They say: We tell you as well as we can, We wonder what you hear.

For Her Window

I see the stones, I see the stars, I know not what I see. Things always say words to themselves And now and then to me. But sometimes when I look between Large stones and little stars I almost know--but what I know Flies through the window bars.