Uninterpreted
Supinely we lie in the grove's shady greenery,
Gazing, all dreamy-eyed, up through the trees, —
And as to the sight is the heavenly scenery,
So to the hearing the sigh of the breeze.
We catch but vague rifts of the blue through the wavering
Boughs of the maples; and, alike undefined,
The whispers and lisps of the leaves, faint and quavering,
Meaningless falter and fall on the mind.
The vine, with its beauty of blossom, goes rioting
Up by the casement, as sweet to the eye
As the trill of the robin is restful and quieting
Heard in a drowse with the dawn in the sky.
And yet we yearn on to learn more of the mystery —
We see and we hear, but forever remain
Mute, blind and deaf to the ultimate history
Born of a rose or a patter of rain.
Gazing, all dreamy-eyed, up through the trees, —
And as to the sight is the heavenly scenery,
So to the hearing the sigh of the breeze.
We catch but vague rifts of the blue through the wavering
Boughs of the maples; and, alike undefined,
The whispers and lisps of the leaves, faint and quavering,
Meaningless falter and fall on the mind.
The vine, with its beauty of blossom, goes rioting
Up by the casement, as sweet to the eye
As the trill of the robin is restful and quieting
Heard in a drowse with the dawn in the sky.
And yet we yearn on to learn more of the mystery —
We see and we hear, but forever remain
Mute, blind and deaf to the ultimate history
Born of a rose or a patter of rain.
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