John Vance Cheney

A breath, whence no man knows,
Swaying the grating weeds, it blows;
It comes, it grieves, it read more

A breath, whence no man knows,
Swaying the grating weeds, it blows;
It comes, it grieves, it goes.
Once it rocked the summer rose.

I question not if thrushes sing,
If roses load the air;
Beyond my heart I need not read more

I question not if thrushes sing,
If roses load the air;
Beyond my heart I need not reach
When all is summer there.

No command of art,
No toil, can help you hear;
Earth's minstrelsy falls clear
read more

No command of art,
No toil, can help you hear;
Earth's minstrelsy falls clear
But on the listening heart.

I pour into the world the eternal streams
Wan prophets tent beside, and dream their dreams.

I pour into the world the eternal streams
Wan prophets tent beside, and dream their dreams.