Thought-Drift
Dim hour by hour through autumn's wane
The silkweed lets her plumes adrift:
They rove—they sink—and yet again
Upon the wavering breeze they lift.
No count is made of where they roam;
They are not found, they are not lost,—
Soft wanderers without a home,
Yet scathless to the sworded frost.
Not otherwise dim hour by hour
I shed white thoughts into the wind,—
Sole drift of my life's vanished flower:
They are not lost—yet none may find.
The silkweed lets her plumes adrift:
They rove—they sink—and yet again
Upon the wavering breeze they lift.
No count is made of where they roam;
They are not found, they are not lost,—
Soft wanderers without a home,
Yet scathless to the sworded frost.
Not otherwise dim hour by hour
I shed white thoughts into the wind,—
Sole drift of my life's vanished flower:
They are not lost—yet none may find.
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