They rise not from reason, but deeper, inconsequent deeps.

Reason's not one that weeps.

What logic of greeting lies

Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?

O cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye

gloss

All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss

The vague blackness of night into pattern and

plan,
So

(But would I could know, but would I could know) With your question embroid'ring the dark of the question of man

So, with your silences purfling this silence of man. While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is

under the ban,

Under the ban

So, ye have wrought me

Designs on the night of our knowledge — yea, ye have taught me,

So,

That haply we know somewhat more than we know.

Ye lisperers, whisperers, singers in storms,
Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms,
Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves,

Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,

Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet

That advise me of more than they bring - repeat Me the wood smell that swiftly but now brought breath

From the heaven-side bank of the river of death

Teach me the terms of silence —preach me

The passion of patience

And there, oh there,

sift me impeach me,

As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air,

Pray me a myriad prayer.

VI

FLOWERS AND LEAVES OF GRASS

A HAPPY THOUGHT

OF HENRY WARD BEECHER'S

FLOWERS are the sweetest things that God ever made and forgot to put a soul into.

FLOWERS

BY JOHN MILTON
From Lycidas

YE VALLEYS low, where the mild whispers rise
Of shades and wanton winds and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine,

The white pink and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.