Springtime, Noon

She is no more; her flesh and blood,
Her soul have slipped into the river
With trunk and bough that broken lie
There white and grey beside the river.

She sings in tones of sand and grass,
To tumblers twisting in the water,
Remarking time of sun—time now
On wings and green of yellow flower.

Her tresses are but rootlets seen
In sand, by damp and dazzled bower
And O her lips the red, red rocks
In pools, are broken songs and laughter.

The dippled rigs of eddied straw
In bright-light float upon the water,
And clutching hold of stippled reeds,
Twist round the hand of him who sought her.

—P.