Page:Slow Smoke.djvu/24

 In every woodland, these are sweet,
  My bread, my wine, my meat:
October smoke that hovers on the streams
   And spirals up the blue;
  Clambering mountain-roses,
 By tender-fingered rain unfurled;
   And honey-laden bees
That nuzzle the buds of shy anemones,
And dust a golden pollen on the world.

  But rarer far than these—
  Than any flower-cup or pool
  From which to drink one's fill
 Of loveliness, a potion beaded, cool,
   To fortify the will—
   I hold the sanguine hue
Of dawn, when courage springs anew
   And the heart is high
As the banners of the day go up the sky;
The wine of the setting sun that holds
 A promise of a glad to-morrow;
 The pool of moonlight that enfolds
  The sable hills and hollows—
  As the quivering silver cry