Flight

 Voices out of the shade that cried,
And long noon in the hot calm places,
And children's play by the wayside,
And country eyes, and quiet faces --
All these were round my steady paces.


Those that I could have loved went by me;
Cool gardened homes slept in the sun;
I heard the whisper of water nigh me,
Saw hands that beckoned, shone, were gone
In the green and gold.
 And I went on.


For if my echoing footfall slept,
Soon a far whispering there'd be
Of a little lonely wind that crept
From tree to tree, and distantly
Followed me, followed me.
 .
 .
 .


But the blue vaporous end of day
Brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite,
Where between pine-woods dipped the way.

I turned, slipped in and out of sight.

I trod as quiet as the night.


The pine-boles kept perpetual hush;
And in the boughs wind never swirled.

I found a flowering lowly bush,
And bowed, slid in, and sighed and curled,
Hidden at rest from all the world.


Safe! I was safe, and glad, I knew!
Yet -- with cold heart and cold wet brows
I lay.
 And the dark fell.
 .
 .
 .
 There grew
Meward a sound of shaken boughs;
And ceased, above my intricate house;

And silence, silence, silence found me.
 .
 .
 .

I felt the unfaltering movement creep
Among the leaves.
 They shed around me
Calm clouds of scent, that I did weep;
And stroked my face.
 I fell asleep.

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