<h2><SPAN name="chap27"></SPAN>THE MOODS</h2>
<p class="poem">
The Moods have laid their hands across my hair:<br/>
The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart;<br/>
My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright,<br/>
But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart<br/>
Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,—<br/>
A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book<br/>
Of little verses, or a dancing child.<br/>
My heart turns crying from the rose and book,<br/>
My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon,<br/>
And weeps with useless sorrow for the child.<br/>
The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair,<br/>
And made my heart too wise, that was a child.<br/>
<br/>
Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame:<br/>
I shall desire all things that may not be:<br/>
The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men,<br/>
All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,—<br/>
Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford,<br/>
And vagrant voices on a darkened plain,<br/>
And holy things, and outcast things, and things,<br/>
Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain.<br/>
<br/>
My pity and my joy are grown alike.<br/>
I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart.<br/>
The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair:<br/>
The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart.<br/></p>
<p class="left">
FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS</p>
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