BLOWN mist of rosy grasses,
Into my singing drift;
Kindle its cloven masses
With lights that sway and shift;
Within its dark impasses
Your fairy torches lift.
Brown rill through rushes wending,
Where red-wings flash and dip,
Lend me the rhythm bending
Each dark reed’s yellowing tip, —
The pause, the swift ascending,
The careless slide and slip.
Into my plodding measure
Your least enchantment fling,
Earth of the winds’ wild pleasure
And leaves’ soft jargoning :
Yield me but one hid treasure,
Then listen while I sing !
Gertrude Buck.