GREETINGS
35
And if at evening when the emerald starsHave made a jewel-mine of sea and sky,And you shall stir to the forgotten touchOf that fond hand that used to curl in yoursAnd hate to leave the man-grip of your palm;Then if your fingers seem to close in sleepAbout the ringless hand that loved too well,It is my phantom, passing through the airGhost fingers that are lonelier than yours!
If at the dawn, you wake to muffled cries,Hoarse chantings of the street and loud newsboysWho seem to think that Crime was made for this,Murder and suicide and bloody war,Especially designed for special sales!And raucous milkmen and insistent wheels,And all things city-smirched and foul and grey,No welcoming leaves a-peep o'er window-sillsAnd the sun worship of awakening trees—If there comes humming like a harp in boughs,Soft waves on pebbly beaches, or a breathRinging the golden bells of mountain flowers,Know it is I, whose heart keeps music stillAmong the broken strings you used to play!
