Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

No Stir Of Air Was There, Not So Much Life As On A Summer's Day Robs Not One Light Seed From The Feather'd Grass, But Where The Dead Leaf Fell, There Did It Rest.

And Shade The Violets, That They May Bind The Moss In Leafy Nets.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.