Thought-Drift
BY
EDITH M. THOMAS
DIM hour by hour through autumn’s wane
The silkweed lets her plumes adrift:
They rove — they sink — and yet again
Upon the wavering breeze they lift.
The silkweed lets her plumes adrift:
They rove — they sink — and yet again
Upon the wavering breeze they lift.
No count is made of where they roam;
They are not found, they are not lost, —
Soft wanderers without a home,
Yet scathless to the sworded frost.
They are not found, they are not lost, —
Soft wanderers without a home,
Yet scathless to the sworded frost.
Not otherwise dim hour by hour
I shed white thoughts into the wind, —
Sole drift of my life’s vanished flower:
They are not lost — yet none may find.
I shed white thoughts into the wind, —
Sole drift of my life’s vanished flower:
They are not lost — yet none may find.