An Artifice of Dust

AN artifice of dust and dream,
He walks the drowsy world in June,
Wading in weeds along the stream,
Enamored of the moon.
In mild entrancement where the leaves
Arise about him like a tower,
He wanders gay, or else he grieves,
Hour on lonely hour.
The stars are bright for his delight,
The wind is soft to see him come,
He strolls the still, enchanted night
In strange delirium.
In this amazing mood he lives
The summer through, who dwells amid
The flowers and other fugitives
Where loveliness is hid.
His eyes are dazzled when the sun
Assumes its zenith in the sky,
And when the blossoming is done
He aches till he would die.
He mourns for beauty, it would seem,
As in a spell, because he must.
He is an edifice of dream,
He is an artifice of dust.
LIONEL WIGGAM