To M. H. We Passed Where Flag And Flower Signalled A Jocund Throng; We Said: "Go To, The Hour Is Apt!" And Joined The Song; And, Kindling, Laughed At Life And Care, Although We Knew No Laugh Lay There. We Walked Where Shy Birds Stood Watching Us, Wonder-Dumb; Their Friendship Met Our Mood; We Cried: "We'll Often Come: We'll Come Morn, Noon, Eve, Everywhen!" - We Doubted We Should Come Again. We Joyed To See Strange Sheens Leap From Quaint Leaves In Shade; A Secret Light Of Greens They'd For Their Pleasure Made. We Said: "We'll Set Such Sorts As These!" - We Knew With Night The Wish Would Cease. "So Sweet The Place," We Said, "Its Tacit Tales So Dear, Our Thoughts, When Breath Has Sped, Will Meet And Mingle Here!" . . . "Words!" Mused We. "Passed The Mortal Door, Our Thoughts Will Reach This Nook No More."