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Robert Laurence Binyon - The Bowl Of Water
Work rating: Low

She is eight years old.
 When she laughs, her eyes laugh;
 Light dances in her eyes;
 She tosses back her long hair
 And with a song replies;
 Then on light feet she darts away
 Tripping, mischievously gay.
 But now into this room of shadow
 Coming slowly with the sun`s long ray
 And all the morning on her simple hair,
 O how serious--eyed
 She steps pre--occupied,
 Holding a bowl of water
 Poised in her fingers` care,--
 Water quivering with cool gleams
 And wavering and a--roll
 Within the clear glass bowl,
 That brimmed and luminous seems
 A wonder and a shining secrecy,
 As if it were the world`s most precious thing,
 So open--clear that all have passed it by.
 Cut stalks of iris lie
 On the bare table, flowers and swelling buds
 Clasped in close curves up to the purple tips
 That shall to--morrow burst
 And shoot a splendid wing,
 When they have drawn into their veins the spring
 Which those young hands, with the drops bright on them,
 So all intently bring;
 Costless felicity,
 Living and unbought!
 And over me, O flowers
 That neither ask nor sigh,
 Comes the thought,
 How all this world is wanting and athirst!
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