SHAPES OF A SOUL.
White with the starlight folded in its wings,
And nestling timidly against your love,
At this soft time of hushed and glimmering things,
You call my soul a dove, a snowy dove.
And nestling timidly against your love,
At this soft time of hushed and glimmering things,
You call my soul a dove, a snowy dove.
If I shall ask you in some shining hour,
When bees and odours through the clear air pass
You'll say my soul buds as a small flushed flower,
Far off, half-hiding, in the old home-grass.
When bees and odours through the clear air pass
You'll say my soul buds as a small flushed flower,
Far off, half-hiding, in the old home-grass.
Ah, pretty names for pretty moods; and you,
Who love me, such sweet shapes as these can see;
But, take it from its sphere of bloom and dew,
And where will then your bird or blossom be?
Who love me, such sweet shapes as these can see;
But, take it from its sphere of bloom and dew,
And where will then your bird or blossom be?
Could you but see it, by life's torrid light,
Crouch in its sands and glare with fire-red wrath,
My soul would seem a tiger, fierce and bright
Among the trembling passions in its path.
Crouch in its sands and glare with fire-red wrath,
My soul would seem a tiger, fierce and bright
Among the trembling passions in its path.
