And a piteous way of sighing From the leaves when they were dying, Yea, he stole indeed some phrases And with these he did so fashion The poem of his passion, The lady still is listening, And still the poet sings! ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. HEN Spring comes laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil, Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, When comes the Summer, Full-leaved and strong, And gay birds gossip The orchard long,— Sing hid, sweet honey That no bee sips; And my Love's lips. When Autumn scatters The leaves again, And piled sheaves bury The broad-wheeled wain, Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers, But when comes Winter And red fire roaring And ingle warm, Sing first sad going Of friends that part ; Then sing glad meeting And my Love's heart. AUSTIN DOBSON. WILD ROSE. O call My Lady where she stood "A Wild-Rose blossom of the wood," For who by such a slight would reach My Love, whose store of household sense And arms her goodness with defence : The sweet reliance of whose gaze And wins that trust the trust repays : Whose stately figure's varying grace For such a halo round it glows, Can flowers that breathe one little day Have any claim to rank with her, Her worth through spheral joys shall move And nothing lives but perfect Love? THOMAS WOOLNER. |