Slow Smoke/Little Enough There Is of Worth
LITTLE ENOUGH THERE IS OF WORTH
Little enough there is of worth On this green ball of earth:Wind in a hemlock-tree, to shakeA cool wet music from the brake . . . Flame in an earthen bowl To warm a frozen soul And cheer a heart grown chill With solitude and ill . . . And water in a rill,Rimmed round with moss that drips Upon the rock, until it fashions A goblet for hot lips, A cup for futile passions.
And when the high heart is broken, The last word spoken,And tears are many as the dew,— The fragmentary dreamsOf beauty that the world discloses 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 beesThat 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 hueOf dawn, when courage springs anew And the heart is highAs 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 Of a lost lone loon Answers the drowsy swallow's, And faintly the echoes die— The pool of mountain moonIn which to fling oneself and make an end of sorrow.