On a Grey Thread/Chance
Chance
Strange that a single white irisGiven carelessly one slumbering spring midnightShould be the first of love,Yet life is written so.
If it had been a roseI might have smiled and pinned it to my dress:We should have said Good Night indifferentlyAnd never met again.But the white iris!It looked so infinitely pureIn the thin green moonlight.A thousand little purple thingsThat had trembled about me through the young yearsFloated into a shape I seem always to have knownThat I suddenly called Love!
The faint touch of your long fingers on mine wakened me.I saw that your tumbled hair was bright with flame,That your eyes were sapphire souls with hungry stars in them,And your lips were too near not to be kissed.
Life crouches at the knees of ChanceAnd takes what falls to her.