For Bessie, Seated By Me In The Garden

To the heart, to the heart the white petals
    Quietly fall.
    Memory is a little wind, and magical
    The dreaming hours.
    As a breath they fall, as a sigh;
    Green garden hours too langorous to waken,
    White leaves of blossomy tree wind-shaken:
    As a breath, a sigh,
    As the slow white drift
    Of a butterfly.
    Flower-wings falling, wings of branches
    One after one at wind's droop dipping;
    Then with the lift
    Of the air's soft breath, in sudden avalanches
    Slipping.
    Quietly, quietly the June wind flings
    White wings,
    White petals, past the footpath flowers
    Adown my dreaming hours.
    At the heart, at the heart the butterfly settles.
    As a breath, a sigh
    Fall the petals of hours, of the white-leafed flowers,
    Fall the petalled wings of the butterfly.
    To my heart, to my heart the white petals
    Quietly fall.

    To the years, other years, old and wistful
    Drifts my dream.
    Petal-patined the dream, white-mistful
    As the dew-sweet haunt of the dim whitebeam
    Because of memory, a little wind ...
    It is the gossamer-float of the butterfly
    This drift of dream
    From the sweet of to-day to the sweet
    Of days long drifted by.
    It is the drift of the butterfly, it is the fleet
    Drift of petals which my noon has thinned,
    It is the ebbing out of my life, of the petals of days.
    To the years, other years, drifts my dream....
    Through the haze
    Of summers long ago
    Love's entrancements flow,
    A blue-green pageant of earth,
    A green-blue pageant of sky,
    As a stream,
    Flooding back with lovely delta to my heart.
    Lo the petalled leafage is finer, under the feet
    The coarse soil with a rainbow's worth
    Of delicate colours lies enamelled,
    Translucently glowing, shining.
    Each balmy breath of the hours
    From eastern gleam to westward gloam
    Is meaning-full as the falling flowers:
    It is a crystal syllable
    For love's defining,
    It is love alone can spell - -
    Yea, Love remains: after this drift of days
    Love is here, Love is not dumb.
    The touch of a silken hand, comradely, untrammelled
    Is in the sunlight, a bright glance
    On every ripple of yonder waterways,
    A whisper in the dance
    Of green shadows;
    Nor shall the sunlight be shut out even from the dark.

    Beyond the garden heavy oaks are buoyant on the meadows,
    Their rugged bark
    No longer rough,
    But chastened and refined in the glowing eyes of Love.
    Around us the petals fulfil
    Their measure and fall, precious the petals are still.
    For Love they once were gathered, they are gathered for Love again,
    Whose glance is on the water,
    Whose whisper is in the green shadows.
    In the same comrade-hand whose touch is in the sunlight,
    They are lying again.
    Here Love is ... Love only of all things outstays
    The drift of petals, the drift of days,
    Petals of hours,
    Of white-leafed flowers,
    Petalled wings of the butterfly,
    Drifting, quietly drifting by
    As a breath, a sigh....