Quiet

Come not the earliest petal here, but only

Wind, cloud, and star,

Lovely and far

Make it less lonely.

Few are the feet that seek her here, but sleeping

Thoughts sweet as flowers

Linger for hours,

Things winged, yet weeping.

Here in the immortal empire of the grasses,

Time, like one wrong

Note in a song,

With their bloom, passes.

Marjorie Pickthall

1883-1922