The Wind is sewing with needles of rain. With shining needles of rain It stitches into the thin Cloth of earth. In, In, in, in. Oh, the wind has often sewed with me. One, two, three. Spring must have fine things To wear like other springs. Of silken green the grass must be Embroidered. One and two and three. Then every crocus must be made So subtly as to seem afraid Of lifting colour from the ground; And after crocuses the round Heads of tulips, and all the fair Intricate garb that Spring will wear. The wind must sew with needles of rain, With shining needles of rain, Stitching into the thin Cloth of earth, in, In, in, in, For all the springs of futurity. One, two, three.
I have known hours built like cities,
House on grey house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off,
Forgotten in a field of green;
Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain,
And woven of forbidden music—
Hours eternal in their pain.
Life is a tapestry of hours
Forever mellowing in tone,
Where all things blend, even the longing
For hours I have never known.