Tangled in Stars

Poems by
Ethelwyn Wetherald



Now when the grove is stifled to the core,
    And all the parchèd grass is summer-killed,
    I think of vehement March, and how she filled
These arid roadsides with a murmurous pour
Of rushing streams from an exhaustless store.
    This breathless air to tropic slumber stilled,
    Recalls those early passionate winds that thrilled
The spirit, blending with the water’s roar.

Just as in rich and dusty-leavèd age
    The soul goes back to brood on swelling buds

        Of hope, desire, and dream, in childhood’s clime,
So I turn backward to the spring-lit page,
    And hear with freshening heart the deep-voiced floods,
        That to the winds give their melodious rhyme. [Page 26]