Robert Smithdas

Flowers in my window, All winter long you keep A hint of Summer's splendor here While Summer's blossoms sleep.

This is the time of silence, And all the world is gray; But I touch your leaves, and know that Spring Will soon be on its way.

Yet once again, my apple-trees are drest Resplendently with blossoms silver-white: How suddenly they burgeoned overnight With beauty, when I thought they were at rest. One day ago, their naked fingers prest Against a hostile sky of winter light, As if to touch the waning sun in flight, Or gather a few embers from the West.

But this new Spring that now enchants each tree Is strangely cold and gleaming; for these flowers Were sculped by wind from fallen snow and frost. And each one holds a coming prophecy Of brighter suns and laughing April showers, And the remembered glory of Springs lost.

I walked through an orchard when Autumn was calling, Where the breath of the fruit-trees was stronger than wine, And each toss of the wind sent the golden leaves falling Like old coins stamped with an ancient design — And I felt that the spoils of the Summer were mine.

I drank from the wind as one quaffs from a flagon, And I caught at the leaves with a miser's quick hand, While my heart sang a song of the harvester's wagon Heaped high with the wealth of the bountiful land — With such joy and thanksgiving, no tongue could command.

Water, water, I touch you with my fingers, And you curl round them in a cool caress, Moulding yourself to every changing gesture With gentleness.

Water, water, I have found you laughing In mountain valleys, or where streams run swift; And I have found you sighing on long beaches Where white sands drift.

Water of life, that falls in dew and shower, That sings with many voices in stream and sea, You hold the miracle of leaf and flower, And even me.

I felt myself falling Down a chasm wide and deep, Through darkness and silence As soft and smooth as silk, Till I heard birds calling In a drowsy world of sleep, And stood with flowers blowing By fountains white as milk.

In a lull of a storm I heard The clear, wild trill of a bird, Singing alone from a thicket of tall dark trees; And in the stillness its gallant treble stirred My heart with a strange peace.

Spontaneously and loud, It burst through the mist and cloud Like a sudden pledge of a new and glorious day; And each courageous note rang strong and proud Over a world of gray.

Then the thunder rolled again, And a torrent of wind and rain Rushed down from the sky, and its song was lost in the night: But in my heart the echo of its refrain Sang on with new delight.

And still it sings through the strife And the turbulent storms of life, Through the mists of gloom, and the sorrowful days I know, As the bird sang out, with hope as keen as a knife, So long, long ago.

I love old-fashioned roses with sharp thorns That let you know that beauty has its pain: Red roses with the color of the heart, And petals soft and smooth as Chinese silk, With small brown daggers hiding underneath.

Love blossoms like a flower as it grows; But there are moments when the thorns of doubt Pierce with the sting of anguish and despair. And then I feel that from the Vine of Life I've plucked the painful beauty of a rose.

No one recalls who built these leaning walls And sagging roofs along this mountainside; Here silence fills the hollows of the hills, Where once the sound of laughter lived and died.

Broken and blank, the windows, rank on rank, Stare vacantly into the grass-grown lanes; No fires light their empty eyes at night, No friendly faces press against their panes.

Gold built this town that Time has tumbled down — Its glitter spilled across these crumbling beams; But when the last bright yellow grain had cast Its final sparkle, men sought other dreams.

The wind goes by as if it were a sigh; The sun spins golden coins in the air; It will not be too long before a tree Hides each faint mark that Man was ever there.