The Thought

As a pale moth passes

In the April grasses,

So I come and go,

Softlier than snow.

Swifter than a star

Through the heart I flee,

Singing things that are

And things that cannot be.

I whisper to the mole

And the cold fish in the sea,

And to man's wistful soul

God sendeth me.

As a grey moth passes

In October grasses,

So I come and go,

Softlier than snow.