"After the swallow

All sweet things follow:

All things go their way,
Only we must stay,

Must not follow : good by swallow, good swallow."

Then listless Marian raised her head

Among the nodding sheaves;

Her voice was sweeter than that voice;
She sang like one who grieves :
Her voice was sweeter than its wont
Among the nodding sheaves;

All wondered while they heard her sing
Like one who hopes and grieves:

66

Deeper than the hail can smite,
Deeper than the frost can bite,

Deep asleep through day and night,
Our delight.

"Now thy sleep no pang can break,

No to-morrow bid thee wake,
Not our sobs who sit and ache
For thy sake.

"Is it dark or light below?

O, but is it cold like snow?

Dost thou feel the green things grow

Fast or slow?

"Is it warm or cold beneath,
O, but is it cold like death?
Cold like death, without a breath,
Cold like death?"

If he comes to-day

He will find her weeping; If he comes to-morrow

He will find her sleeping; If he comes the next day He'll not find her at all, He may tear his curling hair, Beat his breast and call.

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS.

N the wind of January

ON

Down flits the snow,

Travelling from the frozen North

As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast,

Look where he comes;

Let him in to feel your fire,

And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February

Snow-flakes float still,

Half inclined to turn to rain,
Nipping, dripping, chill.

Then the thaws swell the streams,

And swollen rivers swell the sea: If the winter ever ends

How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March
The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,

Curious green and brown.

With concourse of nest-building birds
And leaf-buds by the way,

We begin to think of flowers

And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April

Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees

Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;

While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze

Beside pure scent of flowers,

While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours.

Across the hyacinth beds

The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops,

Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
Drives the pelting hail,

From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,

Sea-things strange to sight

Gasp upon the barren shore
And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind,
Cornfields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,

On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
Weightless on the breeze,
First-fruits of the year's decay
From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September

The heavy-headed fruits

Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun,

Some show green and streaked Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October
At the equinox,

Stirred up in his hollow bed

Broad ocean rocks;

Plunge the ships on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam, It's O for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November
The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
When the fog lifts.

Loosened from their sapless twigs

Leaves drop with every gust;

Drifting, rustling, out of sight
In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,

The year's sands nearly run,