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Poem	Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers; O living flowers against the heedless blue Of summer days, what sends them dancing through This fiery-blossom’d revel of the hours? Theirs are the musing silences between The enraptured crying of shrill birds that make Heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake; And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green. And they are as my soul that wings its way Out of the starlit dimness into morn: And they are as my tremulous being—born To know but this, the phantom glare of day.
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