VIII

A twilight fire-fly may suggest

How flames the fire that feeds the sun:

“A crooked figure may attest

In little space a million.”

But this faint-figured verse, that dresses

With flowers the bones of one bare month,

Of all it would say scarce expresses

In crooked ways a millionth.

A fire-fly tenders to the father

Of fires a tribute something worth:

My verse, a shard-borne beetle rather,

Drones over scarce-illumined earth.

Some inches round me though it brighten

With light of music-making thought,

The dark indeed it may not lighten,

The silence moves not, hearing nought.

Only my heart is eased with hearing,

Only mine eyes are soothed with seeing,

A face brought nigh, a footfall nearing,

Till hopes take form and dreams have being.