XVI. The Wind

XV.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, —
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.

It's like the light, —
A fashionless delight
It's like the bee, —
A dateless melody.

It's like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.

It's like the morning, —
Best when it's done, —
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.