Four poems , opus 16

Through the upland meadows
I go alone.
For I dreamed of someone last night
Who is waiting for me.
 
Flower and blossom, tell me do you know of her?
Have the rocks hidden her voice?
They are very blue and still.
 
Long upward road that is leading me,
Light hearted I quit you,
For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass
Invite me to dance upon them.
 
Quivering grass,
Daintily poised
For her foot's tripping.
 
O blown clouds, could I only race up like you!
Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep!
 
Look, the sky!
Across black valleys
Rise blue-white aloft
Jagged unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death.
 
Solitude. Silence.

I love the night that in long violet shroud 
Slowly and lovingly wraps up the day, 
Hiding its blurred imperfections 
In endless tenderness. 

I love the day's 
High violet cone of light, 
With thin haze on the horizon 
Like a wavering summer sea. 

But most of all I love midsummer dawn, 
When far'off planes of light ascend and tremble together 
Like distant purple waves, the sound of whose dim breaking 
Is lost in the wild babel of awaking birds. 

I 

There is a tall white weed growing at the top of this sand hill: 
In the grass
It is very still. 
It lifts its heavy bracts of flattened bloom 
Against the sky 
Hazily grey with brume. 
Out over yonder boats pass 
And the swallows 
Flatten themselves on the grass. 
The lake is silvering beneath the heat. 
The wind's feet 
Touch lazily each crest, 
Like white gulls slow flapping 
To windward. 
One rose white cloud slowly disengages, loosening itself, 
And stands 
Above the larkspur-coloured water : 
Like Dione's daughter 
Braiding up her wet hair with her pale hands. 

II 

The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees, 
Which do not lift one drooping leaf, this night of June. 
There is no lazy breeze to set them clashing adrift. 
Thin gleams of silver rise and break in the air,
Fireflies here and there. 
Forest of blue masses suddenly quivering with rapid points of white, 
Are the forests beneath the sea where no breeze passes 
As still as you to-night?
The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees;
Through my window, the bed cut evenly with diagonal shafts of light, 
Is a boat rocking out adrift.
Under it bend the silver tips of the dark blue coral trees, 
And fireflies like glass fish 
Drift and ripple upwards in the breeze.

In the bosom of the desert 
I will lie at the last. 
Not the grey desert of sand 
But the golden desert of great wild grasses, 
This shall receive my soul. 
In the high plateaus, 
The wind will be like a flute's note calling me 
Day after day. 
Short bursts of surf, 
The wind climbs up and stops in the grass; 
And the golden petals 
Brush drowsily over my face.