At the End of the Age

Tomorrow, all wonders and glories
Will fade with the dawn of the time;
Today, let us cherish the stories
Of sweetness and sacred sublime.
Consider the roe in the silence,
Consider the cod in the stream...
Perhaps, in the lovely dense twilight
We'll catch in our spirits a dream.

Dreams

My wandering heart kept beating,
I thought I heard the sound
Of places in that choir's note
Which waken and astound.
An isle in the distance,
A shimmering stone in mist,
And brush, and bales of flowers
Lined up on heaven's wrist.
An angel may have warned me
Of things I should not know,
But yearning, yielding, searching,
I breathe scents cherubs blow,
And in the bright tomorrow,
With pictures wet with paint,
I bend, and break, and borrow,
The dreams that heaven sent.

Symbol of Spring's End

A springtime bluebird spoke to me
The other day, the other day:
His coat was flecked with snowflakes cold,
In every way, the other day---
And in his eye was summer's light,
And constellations in the night,
And in his heaving breast he bore
A star born many days before.
The other day, the other day,
He trilled a Purist's song to me,
But on his crooked wing the flakes
Had glued themselves like torrid leaves---
The waves, the sails he'd seen on seas,
And all the forests' golden trees,
They sparkled in his fervid song,
And in his sweetened note belonged.
I left him there upon the bank,
Spring's last hymnal in the heather,
The other day, the other day
Perhaps he's faded to a feather.