By Nora May French


Sweet grasses, tasseled, bent and tall;
            And sweet last light across the meadow—
The wind has tangled, left them all
  In webs of green, in silver shadow.

And to your speech my heart replies,
  Still silvering to each word that passes,
Until a tangled joy it lies,
  A shining web of wind-blown grasses.


A memory of tears that day,
  Of small and piteous lives misused:
The fallen bird we could not save,
  The butterfly we helped—and bruised.

And last, to fill repentant eyes,
  Most bright and frail of winged things—
A moment"s faith, an hour"s love,
  Grieving the dust with broken wings.