Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/Shapes of a Soul
SHAPES OF A SOUL.
White with the starlight folded in its wings,
And nestling timidly against your love,
At this soft time of hushed and glimmering things,
You call my soul a dove, a snowy dove.
And nestling timidly against your love,
At this soft time of hushed and glimmering things,
You call my soul a dove, a snowy dove.
If I shall ask you in some shining hour,
When bees and odours through the clear air pass
You'll say my soul buds as a small flushed flower,
Far off, half-hiding, in the old home-grass.
When bees and odours through the clear air pass
You'll say my soul buds as a small flushed flower,
Far off, half-hiding, in the old home-grass.
Ah, pretty names for pretty moods; and you,
Who love me, such sweet shapes as these can see;
But, take it from its sphere of bloom and dew,
And where will then your bird or blossom be?
Who love me, such sweet shapes as these can see;
But, take it from its sphere of bloom and dew,
And where will then your bird or blossom be?
Could you but see it, by life's torrid light,
Crouch in its sands and glare with fire-red wrath,
My soul would seem a tiger, fierce and bright
Among the trembling passions in its path.
Crouch in its sands and glare with fire-red wrath,
My soul would seem a tiger, fierce and bright
Among the trembling passions in its path.
And, could you sometimes watch it coil and slide,
And drag its colours through the dust a while,
And hiss its poison under-foot, and hide,
My soul would seem a snake———Ah, do not smile!
And drag its colours through the dust a while,
And hiss its poison under-foot, and hide,
My soul would seem a snake———Ah, do not smile!
Yet fiercer forms and darker it can wear;
No matter, though, when these are of the Past,
If as a lamb in the Good Shepherd's care
By the still waters it lie down at last.
No matter, though, when these are of the Past,
If as a lamb in the Good Shepherd's care
By the still waters it lie down at last.