Front matter

I mused upon the strangeness of all things, So different from the dream Whereof the morning mounted up on wings Above the world agleam With light that trembled into life and love As when a censer swings And joy of promise sings— “The dream whereof The gleam above The world is love!” Oh, bitterness to muse and neither find The beauty of the Muse Nor yet the music which the soul divined Ere set the rosy hues In sombre lines that disenchant and fret The heart with growing grief Which struggles for relief— “O Muse, but let My spirit yet The rue forget!” As if to answer me a little child, To whom the sunshine’s glint Was gloom forever, on the corner smiled And vended sprigs of mint, As though there were in blindness still a bloom And fragrance which could reach The passer-by and teach— “In glint or gloom There’s mint in bloom To earth perfume!”