  THE wreathing vine within the porch Is in the heart of me, The roses that the noondays scorch Shall burn in memory; Alone at night I quench the light, And without star or spark The grass and trees press to my knees, And flowers throng the dark. The leaves that loose their hold at noon Drop on my face like rain, And in the watches of the moon I feel them fall again. By day I stray how far away To stream and wood and steep, But on my track they all come back To haunt the vale of sleep. The fields of light are clover-brimmed, Or grassed or daisy-starred, The fields of dark are softly dimmed, And safely twilight-barred; But in the gloom that fills my room I cannot fail to mark The grass and trees about my knees, The flowers in the dark. |
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