Page:Poems May.djvu/67

For his dim sense, and still unconsciously
He freights the bird's song and the blossom's fragrance
With his heart's rich thanksgiving. Flower and herb
He cherishes with strange love. He will not crush
The meanest weed that flings its pendulous spray
Over his path—and all things gentle love him,
From the grave hound that guards him, to the birds
That, from low boughs, the while he flings them bounty,
Eye him askance. His pencil still beguiles
Long hours, grotesquely on the canvass blending
Weird, goblin fancies with half-grasped conceptions,
Gloriously fair. The very words he speaks
Are chosen for their beauty, and the rhythms
He loved, seem ever lingering on his lips.
Thought gleams in faint Auroras, and hope calls
Their light day's luminous herald. Oh! the flame
Burns low upon the altar, Memory clasps
Her blazoned missal, and the priest-like voice
Of Reason dies in silence! There are heard
No more amid her aisles fast-crowding thoughts,
No more the noble anthems of her worship;
And Guide's soul is like some dim cathedral