Harley Graves

From “Songs from the Woods”

UPON our eyelids, dear, the dew will lie,

And on the roughened meshes of our hair,

While little feet make bold to scurry by

And half-notes shrilly cut the quickened air.

Our clean, hard bodies, on the clean, hard ground,

Will vaguely feel that they are full of power;

And they will stir—and stretch—and look around—

Loving the early, chill, half-lighted hour,

Loving the voices in the shadowed trees,

Loving the feet that stir the blossoming grass.

Oh, always we have known such things as these,

And knowing, can we love and let them pass?