Stephen Phillips

* * *

O THOU art put to many uses, sweet!
Thy blood will urge the rose, and surge in Spring;
But yet! . . .

And all the blue of thee will go to the sky,
And all thy laughter to the rivers run;
But yet! . . .

Thy tumbling hair will in the West be seen,
And all thy trembling bosom in the dawn;
But yet! . . .

Thy briefness in the dewdrop shall be hung,
And all the frailness of thee on the foam;
But yet! . . .

Thy soul shall be upon the moonlight spent,
Thy mystery spread upon the evening mere.
And yet! . . .