WHERE tides of tossed wistaria bloom Foam up in purple turbulence, Where twining boughs have built a room And wing'd winds pause to garner scents And scattered sunlight flecks the gloom, She broods in pensive indolence.
What is the thought that holds her thrall, That dims her sight with unshed tears?
What songs of sorrow droop and fall In broken music for her ears?
What voices thrill her and recall The poignant joy of happier years?
She dreams 'tis not the winds which pass That whisper through the shaken vine;
Whose footstep stirs the rustling grass None else that listened might divine;
She sees her child that never was Look up with longing in his eyne.
Unkissed, his lifted forehead gains A grace not earthly, but more rare--For since her heart but only feigns, Wherefore should love not feign him fair?
Put blood of roses in his veins, Weave yellow sunshines for his hair?
All ghosts of little children dead That wander wistful, uncaressed, Their seeking lips by love unfed, She fain would cradle on her breast For his sweet sake whose lonely head Has never known that tender rest.
And thus she sits, and thus she broods, Where drifted blossoms freak the grass;
The winds that move across her moods Pulse with low whispers as they pass, And in their eerier interludes She hears a voice that never was.
