Of my own spirit let me be in sole though feeble mastery.

I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.

The ache of empty arms was an old tale to you.

The world is tired, the year is old, The faded leaves are glad to die.

This is the spot where I will lie When life has had enough of me, These are the grasses that will blow Above me like a living sea. These gay old lilies will not shrink To draw their life from death of mine, And I will give my body's fire To make blue flowers on this vine. "O Soul," I said, "have you no tears? Was not the body dear to you?" I heard my soul say carelessly, "The myrtle flowers will grow more blue.

For I shall learn from flower and leaf, That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold.