Lines Composed

"...little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love."
-W.Wordsworth

She moves like nature, by nature seized,
And in her wild eyes spark all the fires of
Undead stars. She drifts like never-fading
Oceans, deep in deepest blues; she, quiet,
Exists, excites, in intercourse of clouds
Sucked in upon magnetic sun.
Her voice
Is in the burbling of the summer brook,
Is in the whistles calm within the wind,
Blown swift through quiet leaves of autumn. And,
In starless nights beneath the clouded sky,
Her voice is in the cricket's calling cry.

In her is life and light, all twirled in dance
(The way the twirling of the birds does dance
When they are high above the wanton sights
Of gloomy city, dark in all its breadth);
In her is dark and deep, all speckled, bright,
And clear against the shapes of empires grand.
In hours when, by shade of towns instead
By shade of lofty trees, the gloom assaults,
I think of her deep eyes and her twirled dance
And can again feel deep her pow'r in me.

She is the pow'r of rushing sea, and in
The brevity of all her graceful choice,
The pow'r of that rushing stillness moves
The very inner sea of me.