THE BOURNE. UNDERN INDERNEATH the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass. Youth and health will be but vain, Can hold round what once the earth Seemed too narrow to contain. W SUMMER. INTER is cold-hearted, Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weathercock Blown every way : Summer days for me When every leaf is on its tree; When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang singing, singing, singing, Swings from side to side, And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive. Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, I AUTUMN. DWELL alone, I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full my river flows down to the sea, That bring no friend to me : O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone And spices bear to sea: Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes, Love-promising, entreating, Ah! sweet, but fleeting, Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails. Hush they will lie becalmed in sight of strand, — Their songs wake singing echoes in my land, One latest, solitary swallow flies Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost, Dropped down into this uncongenial sea, To watch it while it dies, Unguessed, uncared for, free: Set free at last, The short pang past, In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast. Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, Some rent by thunder-strokes, Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze : That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease. A spider's web blocks all mine avenue; Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap: Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb. It shakes, my trees shake; for a wind is roused In cavern where it housed : Each white and quivering sail, Of boats among the water leaves Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: Each languid maiden, whom the calm Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm Miles down my river to the sea They float and wane, Long miles away from me. Perhaps they say: "She grieves, Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower." More, and we dance among the golden sheaves." Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we stand, Face to face, hand in hand; Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!" My trees are not in flower, I have no bower, And gusty creaks my tower, And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand. THE GHOST'S PETITION. HERE's a footstep coming: look out and "THE see." "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea." "There's a footstep coming: O sister, look.""The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; No one cometh across the brook." "But he promised that he would come : To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, He must keep his word, and must come home. |