The Pool

Now I am still again, as a pool in the forest.
Once the soft hands of the wind were gentle and tender,
And the wings of birds brushed me with fleeting caresses,
And blossoms fell, floated and decked me with splendor.
You too, for a short sweet day, preened in my mirror,
Lovelier in me than you were in the gaze of the sun;
But soon you, too, were gone with the refluent season;
The leaves grow brown and the gray afternoons have begun.
Now I am still again, and the forest is songless.
But soon, as the moon grows cold and the swallows depart,
I will harden with frost, at first at the surface emotions
And, as the winter strikes, deep at the springs of the heart.
R. S.