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Without is tender yearning, And tender love is within;

ONCE on my mother's breast, a child, They can hear each other's heart

I crept,

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beats,

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Brown hands splashed with mulberry Content with vaguest feathers and

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Of the river where we used to swim, Under the ghostly sycamores,

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came

Haunting the waters smooth and From his log the chipmonk, waxen And pillaged the berries overhead;

dim;

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tame, Peered and listened to what we said.

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But if I could turn from the long de- Ah me! should I paint the morrows

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Then, while the grasshopper sung out All our atoms are changed, they

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