Poetry Archives

Her moods are like the fountain’s, changing ever,
  That spouts aloft a sudden, watery dome,
  Only to fall again in shattering foam,
Just where the wedded jets themselves dissever,
And palpitating downward, downward quiver,
  Unfolded like a swift ethereal flower,
  That sheds white petals in a blinding shower,
And straightway soars anew with blithe endeavor.

The sun may kindle it with healthful fire;
  Upon it falls the cloud-gray’s leaden load;
At night the stars shall haunt the whirling spire:
  Yet these have but a transient garb bestowed.
So her glad life, whate’er the hours impart,
Plays still ‘twixt heaven’s cope and her own clear heart.