Karle Wilson Baker

THEY cling to the skirts of my spirit with their tiny, imperious clutch;

With bonds of my love they enmesh me, woven close by their satin-soft touch.

Not an hour of their clamorous waking they spare me the whole day through,

Till the weight on my wings is an anguish, and I faint for the fetterless blue.

Then, washed by the wild wind of freedom that sweeps from the heavenly steep,

I swoop from the violet spaces to hover and bless them, asleep!

I bring him his wheat-bread and honey, I run for his sandals and staff.

Though the day may have drained me, at evening I must still be his goblet to quaff.

Dear despot of love, little recks he of vigils untamed that I keep—

I, the server, who rise from my pillow, to watch him, fulfilled and asleep.

Then I toss back the hair of my spirit, bare my feet for the heavenly streams,

And range with him, lover and lover, hand in hand through the world of his dreams!