Robert Alden Sanborn

THE STILLNESS of anemones,

Filling with moonlight …

Listen, child:

Gather the folds of your dream

Close about you,

And heed not

The hand of Time—

Ingratiating,

Jingling with hours,

Bright hours,

Gaudy …

(Do not be tempted to sell him

Your childhood)

But I,

I have nothing to offer,

And nothing to ask

But love—

Love that is hushed—

Still as anemones,

Filling with moonlight.