d the echo of thy footfalls--
The ring of thy song,
And a star--reflection of thy smile--
Those million suns in the firmament of my dawn.

9

AFTER A BENGALI SONG

In the forest of my being the voice of your lute;
In the depth of my heart the pearl of your tear;
In the temple of my soul chimes the bell of your love.

The fire of dawn, shadow of eve,
Life's sorrow, and death's mute-enchanting peace
Steal away silently, fearfully, at thy flute's music.

O, frail, faint call which I seek to echo!
O, breath of love laden with the aroma of my soul!
Why seek I ever without, O guest at my door?

10

MOONRISE

A soft light mantle of rose wear the brown hills
As they look down on the valley where the rills
Spin their long silver embroideries
For the fringe of spring's greened draperies.

The cloud-banks recede with the fading breeze,
The warblers fall into silence in the trees
To listen to many-colored dream-melodies
That the mute stars make on sleep's endless seas.

The last light flickers out of the sky,
Shadows with golden feet o'er the green valley hie;
The silver rills trill like warblers from earth's deeps
As the moon, the sun of another dawn, heavenward leaps.

11

AT VENTURA, CALIFORNIA

The moon rises and washes the brine with silver;
The dunes like white elephants restfully asleep after the chase;
And the fog comes to bring the moon its veil of shades.
The waves stretch their phosphorescent arms
To embrace the night,
The wind like a wounded gull beats its wings
Over the land, over the sea, into the fog-vested intangibility.

Like a thousand trumpets the breakers
Proclaim the empiry of night,
The rocky caverns send back echoes
Like homage from vassals near and far;
A faint cry seemeth to flash like lightning;
Through the clouds of the roar of waves:
It is not from the rocks, nor from the sea;
Ah! it is the prayer of a mightier ocean--Humanity!

12

The same air that you breathe
Is the air that caresses my sky;
The sunlight that lingers on your hair and lips
Sets fire to the pathway of my life;
And the call of nature's numberless birds
But reflects in world's mirror the music of our heart's singing--
Melody made of sweet agonies,
Exquisite joys poured from pitchers of pain