Inviolate Infancy

In the cool corridors, in the still room,

In the dark watches of the ebbing day,

I see his delicate wings, the innocent eyes

Of the unborn love; restless within my brain

The light, the childish form takes life again.

Winged with a softness, quicker than April air,

Garlanded with flowers whose fragrance time, nor change,

Nor revolution of the sun can mar;

Snow-calm, rose-lovely, violet-sweet,

Are his unearthbound feet.

O darling miracle in whom the world

Restores its idyllic dream, its golden age:

Mysterious, simple as the living grass,

Or the arched quiet of the growing trees,

Or the reserved full-blown white peonies.

THE DAISY

Having so rich a treasury, so fine a hoard

Of beauty water-bright before my eyes,