From the Hand of a Child
Diana flying with her maidens white,
Down the long reaches of the laureled hills.
Above the sea I saw a wreath of girls,
Fading to air in far-off poppy fields.
I saw a blithe youth take the open road:
His thoughts ran on before him merrily;
Sometimes he dipped his feet in stirring brooks;
At night he slept upon a bed of boughs....
This in my soul. Then suddenly a shape,
A spectre wearing yet the mask of dust,
Jostled against me as he passed, and lo!
The jarring city and the drift of feet
Surged back upon me like the grieving sea.
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