A FOUNTAIN and a singing bird
That weave a chiming rain,
And you so near, a hidden third,
Sighing my name again:
A star that trembles in the grey,
Eve’s primrose newly blown,
And eve, and spring, and newborn day
Are each at once my own.
O fountain, bird, and swaying star
Her sweet confederates still,
When shall the gate of Love unbar
That I may have my will?
© Frank S. Williamson