Puslapio vaizdai
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The little waves in passing-like the breeze That stirs the foliage of the unmoved treesPlayed in their hair, and fluttering grasses rose And fell and danced about their mute repose. But I gazed on until I too had drunk

Of their lips' joy, until their peace had sunk Into my troubling earth-stirred heart that ached To join them, . . . and then waked . . .

Honey-Harvest.

Μὴ Φθινοπωρὶς ἀνέμων

χειμερία κατὰ πνοὰ δαμαλίζοι χρόνον.

SETTING of summer all golden and sun's setting

Glory kindle in a garden where flower-knots glow Like a pane of jewelled stain from the lattice fallen low,

High that was holden in the wide west's fiery fretting.

Hummeth around it unceasing the land, hummeth Loud with drone of the wheels that whir gathering rich gain,

Field by field bereft must yield, with each amberbeaded gain,

Man's hoard increasing ere the wintry dearth-day cometh.

Guerdon of toil 'mid the blossoms, a rare guerdon, Filmy wings quiver questing and murmurous make Fragrant air round bud-lips fair, for the dew-pure nectar's sake

Hid in their bosoms, now the honey-bee's sweet burden.

Golden the granary's harvest, the hive's golden

Rapt from troubling of storm-blast, from frost-blight's despair:

So be wise 'neath smiling skies, so, ere all thy world lie bare,

Store else thou starvest-store memories dear and

olden.

The Turn of the Road.

Deceptaque non Capiatur.

WHERE this narrow lane slips by,
All the land's breadth, over-glowed
Under amplest arching sky,
Seems a secret meet to keep

For these hedged banks close and high,
Till the turn of the road.

Then a curve of sudden sweep-
Lone and green the countryside,
Like a cloak, with scarce a fold,

And the white track's dwindling thread
Lies in basking beams dispread :
You may look out far and wide
From the turn of the road.

There's a gleam of rusted gold,
And a blink of eave-stained wall,
Up the lane a rood or so,

Where a thatched roof huddles low;

And a day will seldom fall

But its mistress, bent and old,

Rime-frost hair and little red shawl,

Through her black-gapped doorway fares, Very frail and meagre and small,

And the years' unlifted load

With a faltering foot she bears
'Twixt the tall banks to and fro;

But her steps will ever stay

Ere the turn of the road

Never reach it; you might guess
That they halt for feebleness,
Till you hear her story told.

For she says: "The children all
while away.

Are a weary

Years long since I watched them go

'Twas when dawn came glimmering cold—

Round the turn of the road.

And I'm lonesome left behind;

Yet time passes, fast or slow,

And they're coming home some day;
They'll come back to me, they said:
Just this morn that's overhead
It might chance, for aught I know.
"And that's always in my mind,
For I dream it in my sleep,
And I think it when I wake,
And when out of doors I creep
Towards the turn of the road,
Then a step I hardly make
But I'm saying all the while,
• Ere another minute's gone
I may see them there, all three,
Coming home, poor lads, to me,
Round the turn of the road.'

"But a stone's throw further on,
If I'd creep to where it showed
Like a riband stretched a mile,

And the longest look I'd take
Saw naught stirring on its white,
Sure my heart were fit to break.

"So or ever I come in sight,

Home I set my face again,

Lest I'd lose the thought that's light
Through the darksome day. And then.
If I find the house so still

That my heart begins to ache,
And a hundred harms forebode,
Ere my foot is o'er the sill,
I can think I needn't fret,
If they're maybe near me yet
At the turn of the road."

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