She in her pendulous nook
Sways with the warm wind tide,
I with a pen or a book
Rock as soft at her side.
Comrades with nothing to say,
Neither of us intrudes,
But through the lingering day
Each of us sits and broods.
Not upon hate and fear,
Not upon grief or doubt,
Not upon spite or sneer,
These we could never hatch out.
She broods on wonderful things:
Quickening life that belongs
To a heart and a voice and wings,
But–I'm not so sure of my songs !
Then in the summer night,
When I awake with a start,
I think of the nest at the height–
The leafy height of my heart;
I think of the mother love,
Of the patient wings close furled,
Of the sky that broods above,
Of the Love that broods on the world.
