TO WILLIAM GRIFFITH

I think your soul goes clad in dominoes,

Haunting old gardens that are always June,

To sit within the shadow of a rose,

And strum and sing your every fragile tune.

For all we meet you where the great world rides,

You have no league with anything we are:

Your life is all entangled in the tides

Of goblin moons and musics and a star.

You talk to us of what the moment brings,

Of earnest men and worlds of work-a-day,

Of stocks and stores and half a hundred things,—

And all the while, your soul is leagues away,

Troubling old ghostly gardens where it goes,

Motlied with moonlight and your dominoes.