Stephen Phillips (1868–1915)

O THOU art put to many uses, sweet!

Thy blood will urge the rose, and surge in spring;

But yet!—

And all the blue of thee will go to the sky,

And all thy laughter to the rivers run;

But yet!—

Thy tumbling hair will in the West be seen,

And all thy trembling bosom in the dawn;

But yet!—

Thy briefness in the dewdrop shall be hung,

And all the frailness of thee on the foam;

But yet!—

Thy soul shall be upon the moonlight spent,

Thy mystery spread upon the evening mere.

And yet!—