Shapes of Clay

Upon my desk a single spray,

With starry blossoms fraught.

I write in many an idle way,

Thinking one serious thought.

"O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear,

And with a fine Greek grace."

Be still, O heart, that turns to share

The sunshine of a face.

"Have ye no messages—no brief,

Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?"

A sudden stir of stem and leaf—

A breath of heliotrope!