Poems (Van Rensselaer)/Her Calendar
For works with similar titles, see Her Calendar.
HER CALENDAR
The twelve moons of the circled year
Have grown from sickle-edge to perfect globe,
And waning—pallid, leaf-like, sere—
Have died into the dawn. The earth's broad robe
Has changed from springtime blossomy green and white
To summer's deeper green and gold,
To duskier green all broidered with the bright
Devices of the autumn trees, to cold
And shining argent—then
Back to spring's lovely livery again.
I know: for on this little mound
Three nodding sprays
Of saxifrage I found,
And after many days
A rosy disk upon the wild-rose bush
Near by. Then from a distant bough
A red leaf drifted through the evening hush,
And then awhile there was no mounded grave,
Only a small, small wave
In the immaculate whiteness. Now
The spring has come once more; for, see,
The saxifrages bud; and even so
As days and moons and seasons go
Here in my little world, so it must be
With the encompassing great world that is
Made beautiful but as the temple-court for this
Most sacred treasury.
Have grown from sickle-edge to perfect globe,
And waning—pallid, leaf-like, sere—
Have died into the dawn. The earth's broad robe
Has changed from springtime blossomy green and white
To summer's deeper green and gold,
To duskier green all broidered with the bright
Devices of the autumn trees, to cold
And shining argent—then
Back to spring's lovely livery again.
I know: for on this little mound
Three nodding sprays
Of saxifrage I found,
And after many days
A rosy disk upon the wild-rose bush
Near by. Then from a distant bough
A red leaf drifted through the evening hush,
And then awhile there was no mounded grave,
Only a small, small wave
In the immaculate whiteness. Now
The spring has come once more; for, see,
The saxifrages bud; and even so
As days and moons and seasons go
Here in my little world, so it must be
With the encompassing great world that is
Made beautiful but as the temple-court for this
Most sacred treasury.