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Poem	(To Eudora, after I had had certain dire adventures.) When Dragon-fly would fix his wings, When Snail would patch his house, When moths have marred the overcoat Of tender Mister Mouse, The pretty creatures go with haste To the sunlit blue-grass hills Where the Flower of Mending yields the wax And webs to help their ills. The hour the coats are waxed and webbed They fall into a dream, And when they wake the ragged robes Are joined without a seam. My heart is but a dragon-fly, My heart is but a mouse, My heart is but a haughty snail In a little stony house. Your hand was honey-comb to heal, Your voice a web to bind. You were a Mending Flower to me To cure my heart and mind.
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