THE MESSAGE[3]

SO might it brush my cheek with errant wings, So might it speak with thrilling touch and light Of answering eyes, of dim, unuttered things— A moth from hidden gardens of the night. So, in a land of hills, where twilight lay, Might come a sudden bird-call to the ear, Across the canyons, faint and far away.... O Heart, how sweet ... half heard and wholly dear.

WHO goes to meet the windy night With unseen comrades shouting by, Who grips a bough in swift delight To let it dip and loose and fly; Who runs for rest that running gives, Runs till his throbbing muscles speak; Who bends to feel how keenly lives The joyous grass beneath his cheek— With sudden tears his eyes shall fill, With quick-drawn breath he sees them plain— Those bodies that must lie so still, So tired—in the House of Pain.