MOODS I S WEET grasses, tasseled, bent and tall; And sweet last light across the meadow-- The wind has tangled, left them all In webs of green, in silver shadow. And to your speech my heart replies, Still silvering to each word that passes, Until a tangled joy it lies, A shining web of wind-blown grasses. II A MEMORY of tears that day, Of small and piteous lives misused: The fallen bird we could not save, The butterfly we helped--and bruised. And last, to fill repentant eyes, Most bright and frail of winged things-- A moment's faith, an hour's love, Grieving the dust with broken wings.