1
My fancies are fireflies, —
Specks of living light
twinkling in the dark.
2
The voice of wayside pansies,
that do not attract the careless glance,
murmurs in these desultory lines.
3
In the drowsy dark caves of the mind
dreams build their nest with fragments
dropped from day's caravan.
4
Spring scatters the petals of flowers
that are not for the fruits of the future,
but for the moment's whim.
5
Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumber
rushes into numberless leaves,
and dances in the air for a day.
6
My words that are slight
my lightly dance upon time's waves
when my works heavy with import have gone down.
7
Mind's underground moths
grow filmy wings
and take a farewell flight
in the sunset sky.
8
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.