Rain today and the market,
Traders, in spite of the wet,
Look very happy.
Christmas is on its way,
And bargain hunters, like rabbits,
From their burrows,
When the coast is clear,
Scurry and stop to stare;
In amazed unbelief. Ears,
Pricked and whiskers,
Twitching eagerly.
INSUBSTANTIAL LOVE.
Love, as insubstantial as a cloud.
Or as the mist on Scottish Mounts.
Hangs wreathed around the crags.
Then as quickly drifts away, or,
Evaporates in thin air; dreamlike,
Ghostly and unreal.
Yet love, as real, as capable,
Of letting in the sun and light,
Of day; of drying out the chill,
Of loneliness, and giving substance,
To longings unexpressed, or,
Not expressible in words,
Clumsy, booted and foolishly crude.
As the light of day.
To sweet enchanted minds.
Not moonstruck, maudlin nor,
Unsound, where dampness lurked.
And shadows. All driven off,
By heat and light and warmth.