Lad

Behold, lad, beneath the wonted boughs,
Stript of leaf and redolent of October’s breath,
There resteth the mind ‘pon the waves’ brows;
It floateth ’mid the words of tales beneath.

A little book is this, for its own part,
Of images, of deeds, of imaginings cast,
Of ink-stains and coffee and erring art,
And of dream-born confusions shadowed fast.

Cold is the blast; steep and uneasy
The hip of an outworn hill of old,
Where now that grasping waxeth weary,
Where now the shoulders draw and fold.

Such are we, dry leaves of the field,
Scarce laid upon the waiting ground;
Such are we ’mid those stains revealed,
As a stone within a treasure found.

The sun alone, behold, doth shine,
Even when in quiet course it goeth,
’Mid the sigh that biddeth time,
And at thy “there” in triumph showeth.