Poems

Front matter

S

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M DCCC LV.

Lyra

POEMS.

ppoem| start=follow|

Where creeping vines o'errun the sunny leas,

Sadly, sweet souls, I watch your shining bands, Filling with stainéd hands

Your leafy cups with lush red strawberries;

Or deep in murmurous glooms, In yellow mosses full of starry blooms, Sunken at ease—each busied as she likes,

Or stripping from the grass the beaded dews,

Or picking jagged leaves from the slim spikes

Of tender pinks—with warbled interfuse

Of poesy divine,

That haply long ago

Some wretched borderer of the realm of wo

Wrought to a dulcet line;— If in your lovely years There be a sorrow that may touch with tears The eyelids piteously, they must be shed {sc}For Lyra, dead.

The mantle of the May

Was blown almost within the summer's reach,

And all the orchard trees,

Apple, and pear, and peach,

Were full of yellow bees,

Flown from their hives away.

The callow dove upon the dusty beam

Fluttered its little wings in streaks of light,

And the gray swallow twittered full in sight;

Harmless the unyoked team

Browsed from the budding elms, and thrilling lays

Made musical prophecies of brighter days;

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And all went jocundly. I could but say, Ah! well-a-day!— What time spring thaws the wold, And in the dead leaves come up sprouts of gold, And green and ribby blue, that after hours Encrown with flowers; Heavily lies my heart From all delights apart, Even as an echo hungry for the wind, When fail the silver-kissing waves to unbind The music bedded in the drowsy strings Of the sea's golden shells— That, sometimes, with, their honeyed murmurings Fill all its underswells;— For o'er the sunshine fell a shadow wide When Lyra died.

When sober Autumn, with his mist-bound brows, Sits drearily beneath the fading boughs, And the rain, chilly cold, Wrings from his beard of gold, And as some comfort for his lonesome hours, Hides in his bosom stalks of withered flowers, I think about what leaves are drooping round A smoothly shapen mound, And if the wild wind cries Where Lyra lies. Sweet shepherds softly blow Ditties most sad and low— Piping on hollow reeds to your pent sheep— Calm be my Lyra's sleep,

ppoem| start=follow| Unvexed with dream of the rough briers that pull From his strayed lambs the wool! Oh, star, that tremblest dim Upon the welkin's rim, Send with thy milky shadows from above Tidings about my love; If that some envious wave Made his untimely grave, Or if, so softening half my wild regrets, Some coverlid of bluest violets Was softly put aside, What time he died! Nay, come not, piteous maids, Out of the murmurous shades; But keep your tresses crownéd as you may With eglantine and daffodillies gay, And with the dews of myrtles wash your cheeks, When flamy streaks, Uprunning the gray orient, tell of morn— While I, forlorn, Pour all my heart in tears and plaints. instead, {sc}For Lyra, dead.

In Illness

And softly filling in the front of March The new moon lies, Watching for harebells, and the buds that ease Heart's lovelorn, and the spotted adder's tongue, Dead heapéd leaves among— The verdurous season's cloud of witnesses; Of how the daisy shines White, i' the knotty and close-nibbled grass; Of thickets full of prickly eglantines, And the slim spice-wood and red sassafras, Stealing between whose boughs the twinkling heats Suck up the exhaléd sweets From dew-embalméd beds of primroses, That all unpresséd lie, Save of enamored airs, right daintily, And golden-ringéd bees Of atmospheres of hymns, When wings go beating up the blue sublime From hedgerows sweet with vermeil-sprouting limbs, In April's showery time, When lilacs come, and straggling flag-flowers, bright, As any summer light Ere yet the plowman's steers Browse through the meadows from the traces free, Or steel-blue swallows twitter merrily, With slant wings shaving close the level ground, Where with his new-washed ewes thick huddled round, The careful herdsman plies the busy shears. But this was in life's May, Ere Lyra was away;

And this fond seeming now no longer seems— Aching and drowsy pains keep down my dreams;— Even as a dreary wind Within some hollow, black with poison flowers, Swoons into silence, dies the hope that lined My lowly chamber with illumined wings, In life's enchanted hours, When, tender oxlips mixed through yellow strings Of mulleinstars, with myrtles interfused, Pulled out of pastures green, I gaily used To braid up with my hair. Ah, well-a-day! Haply the blue eyes of another May, Open from rosy lids, I shall not see, For the white shroud-folds. If it thus must be, Oh, friends who near me keep To watch or weep, When you shall see the coming of the night Comfort me with the light Of Lyra's love, And pray the saints above To pity me, if it be sin to know Heaven here below.

To the Night

Where the south winds do sleep, Forgetting their white cradles in the deep.

The future is all dim, No more my locks I trim With myrtles or gay pansies, as I used, Or with slim jasmines strung with pretty flowers, As in the blessed hours Ere yet I sadly mused, Or covered up from my lamenting eyes The two sweet skies, With withered holly or the bitter rue, As now, alas! I do. Since Lyra, for whose sake the world was fair, Is lost, I know not where, Ah me! my sweetest song Must do his beauty wrong To his white hands I give my heavy heart, Saying, Lovely as thou art, Be kindly piteous of my hapless wo!— Full well I know How changed I am since all my young heart-beats Were full of joyance, as of pastoral sweets The long bright summer times When Love first taught me rhymes. Yet, dear one, in thy smile The light they knew erewhile My eyes would gather back, and in my cheek Beneath thy lip the flush of spring would break. Come, thou, about whose visionary bier

I strew in softest fear Pale flowers of mandrakes in the nightly dreams, That fly when morning streams Slant through my casement and fades off again, Soothing no jot my pain— Come back and stay with me And we will lovers be! In the brown shadows of the autumn trees, Lingering behind the bees Till the rough winds do blow And blustery clouds are full of chilly snow, We'll sing old songs, and with love ditties gay Beguile the hours away. And I with ivy buds thy locks will crown, And when in all their pretty lengths of gold Straightened with moisture cold Sorrowfully drop they down, My hands shall press them dry, the while I keep Soft watches for thy sleep, Weaving some roundelay, Of that pale huntress, haply, whose blue way Along the heavens was lost, Finding the low earth sweeter than the skies— Kissing the love-lit eyes Of the fair boy Endymion, as he crossed The leafy silence of the woods alone, In the old myth-time flown; Haply of Proteus all his dripping flocks Along the wild sea-rocks Driving to pastures in fresh sprouting meads,

His sad brows crownéd with green murmurous reeds For love of Leonora—she for whom The blank blanched sands were shapen to a tomb, Where, under the wild midnight's troubled frown, With his pale burden in his arms, went down Her mortal lover. Moaningly the waves Wash by two lonesome graves; One holds the ashes of the beauteous boy Whose harmless joy Of playing the fifth season in the sun, Was all untimely done.

Away, my dream, away! Like young buds blackened in the front of May And wasted in the rude and envious frost, My early hopes are lost. Oh angel of the darkness, come and make, For pity's sake, My bed with sheets as white as sheets may be, And give me sweeter grace to go with thee, Than e'er became my life. No lures have I, To draw thee nigh, Of beauty, wit, or friends to make ado; Haply, or one or two, Seeing me in my shroud, would sigh, "Alas!" As for a daisy gone out of the grass Wherein bloomed better flowers. If so it fall, It were an end befitting most of all The close of my bad fortunes. Thou Hearing my pleading now,

Knowest well how true I speak, There be no prints of kisses on the cheek I hide against thy bosom, praying to go Down to the chamber low, Wherein I shall be wed With Lyra, dead.

The Minstrel

The birds made dusky all the air; The yellow light began to fade From the low tarn—the day was o'er; And still his willow pipe he played, Under the silvery sycamore: "I would that I were bird or bee, Or anything that I am not— Lost lady-love, I care not what, So I might live and die with thee."

Down through the long blue silences Came the owl's cry; fire-flies were trimming Their torches for the night, and skimming Athwart the glooms; between the trees, Went the blind, wretched bat: Ah me, The night and sorrow well agree! The meadow king-cups and the furze Were pretty with the harvest dew, And in the brook the thistle threw The shadows of its many burs. I wis, he lovely was to see, In the gray twilight's pallid shade, As on his willow pipe he played, Crownéd with "buds of poesy"— "I would that I were bird or bee, Or anything that I am not— A sound, a breeze, I care not what, So I might live and die with thee."

Faint gales of starlight from above Blew softly from the casement light

Across the pillow, milky white, Where slept the lady of his love, The floating tresses, black as sloe, Fell tangled round the dainty snow Of cheek and bosom. Gentle seemed The lady, smiling as she dreamed. But not of him her visions are, Who, for the sake of the sweet light Within her casement, vexed the night— Her thoughts are travellers otherwhere.

At midnight on a jutting cliff, A raven flapped his wings and cried; Faintly the willow pipe replied— The hands upon its stops were stiff. Under the silvery sycamore The mournful playing was all done— If there be angels, he was one, For surely all his pain was o'er.

At morn a lady walked that way, And when she saw his quiet sleeping, Upon the flowers, she fell a-weeping, And for her tears she could not pray. I had been little used to speak Of comfort, but was moved to see Her piteous heart so near to break, For the pale corse beneath the tree; And so, to soothe her grief, I said The way he died, and told his song; "Alas, he loved me well and long,"

She sighed; "I would that we were wed As lovers use, or else that I Were anything that I am not, Or bird, or bee, I care not what, Here in the pleasant flowers to die."

The mist, with many a soft fold, shrouds The eastern hills, birds wake their hymns, And through the sycamore's white limbs Shines the red climbing of the clouds. Making my rhymes, I heard her sigh, "Ah, well-a-day, that we were wed As lovers use, or else that I Here on the pleasant flowers were dead!"

Hyala

Idalia, fairest shepherdess of all— In her white hands her silver milking-bowl, And on her lip the music of a heart Hungry for love—crossed the near field, her song Sweetly dividing the blue silent air: "O fair Scamander, bed of loveliness, When wilt thou give my naked limbs to lie Among thy marriage pillows, white as foam!" In the pale cheek of Hyala burned out An angry color, as she saw her sit Singing and milking in her silver bowl. One lily shoulder, under rippling lengths Of dropping tresses, pressing light the flank Of a plump goat, with eyes as black as sloe, And hoofs of pinky silver, dimpling deep The wild green turf thick-sprouting on a ridge That topt a flowery slope in Thessaly. Scorn curled the lip of listening Hyala, And drawing from her belt the nimblest shaft, Straight from her steady hand it sped and sunk Deep in the forehead of the harmless beast, That moaning fell, and bled into the grass: So Hyala went laughing on her way.

Pictures of Memory

Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face: And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the old dim forest Seemeth the best of all.

Grand-Dame and Child

The lilies carvéd in her chair The grand-dame counts, but cannot tell If they be three or seven; the pair Of merry blue-birds, singing well, She does not hear;. nor can she see The moonshine, cold and pure, and bright, Walk like an angel clothed in white, The path where Miriam should be.

Almost she hears the little feet Patter along the path of sands; Her eyes are making pictures sweet, And every breeze her cheek that fans, Half cheats her to believe, I wis, It is her pretty grandchild's kiss.

The dainty hood, her fancy too Sees hanging on the cabin wall, And from her modest eyes of blue, Fair Miriam putting back the fall Of her brown hair, and laughing wild— Her darling merry-hearted child, Then with a step as light and low As any wood-birds in the snow, She goes about her household cares.

"The saints will surely count for prayers The duties love doth sweeten so," Says the pleased grand-dame; but alas! No feet are pattering on the grass, No hood is hanging on the wall— It was a foolish dreaming, all.

The morning-glories winding up The rustic pillars of the shed, Open their dark bells, cup by cup, To the June's rainy clouds; the bed Of rosemary and meadow-sweet Which Miriam kept with so much care, Is run to weeds, and everywhere Across the paths her busy feet Wore smooth and hard, the grass has grown— And still the grand-dame sits alone, Counting the lilies in her chair— Her ancient chair of carved oak— And fretful, listening for the stroke Of the old clock, and for the pair Of blue-birds that have long been still; Saying, as o'er the neighboring hill The shadows gather thick and dumb— "'T is time that Miriam were come."

And now the spiders cease to weave, And from between the corn's green stems Drawing after her her scarlet hems, Dew-dappled, the brown-vested Eve Slow to his purple pillows drops; His tired team now the plowman stops; In the dim woods the axe is still, And sober, winding round the hill, The cows come home. "Come, pretty one, I'm watching for you at the door," Calls the old grand-dame o'er and o'er, "'Tis time the working all were done."

And kindly neighbors come and go, But gently piteous; none have said, "Your pretty grandchild sleepeth so We cannot wake her;" but instead Piling the cushions in her chair, Carved in many a quaint design Of leaves and lilies, nice and fine, They tell her she must not despair To meet her pretty child again— To see her wear forever more, A smile of brighter love than when The moths flew with her in the door.

Agatha to Harold

They will see it o'er me blossom And believe I had a friend. Knowest thou the time, oh Harold, When at many a green mound's head Read we o'er the simple records Love had written of the dead. While the west was faintly burning, Where the cloudy day was set, Like a blushing press of kisses— Ah, thou never canst forget!

"Thou art young" thou saidst, "thy future All in sunlight seems to shine— Art content to crown thy maytime Out of autumn love like mine? Couldst thou see my locks a fading With no sorrow and no fears?— For thou knowest I stand in shadows Deep to almost twice thy years." In that time my life-blood mounted From my bosom to my brow, And I answered simply, truly— (I was younger then than now)— "Were it strange if that a daisy Sheltered from the tempest stroke, Bloomed contented in the shadow Of the overarching oak?"

When the sun had like a herdsman Clipt the misty waves of morn, By the breezes driven seaward Like a flock of lambs new-shorn;

Thou hadst left me, and oh, Harold, Half in gladness, half in tears, I was gazing down the future O'er the lapses of the years; To what time the clouds about me— All my night of sorrow done— Should blow out their crimson linings O'er the rising of love's sun; And I said in exultation, "Not the bright ones in the sky, Then shall know a sweeter pleasure Than, my Harold, thou and I."

Thrice the scattered seed had sprouted As the spring thaw reappeared, And the winter frosts had grizzled Thrice the autumn's yellow beard; When that lovely day of promise Darkened with a dread eclipse, And my heart's long claspéd joyance Died in moans upon my lips. Silent, saw I other maidens To a thousand pleasures wed— "Save me from the past, good angel!"— This was all the prayer I said. Sometimes they would smile upon me As their gay troops passed me by, Saying softly to each other, "How is she content to die?"

Oh, they little guess the barren Wastes on which my visions go, And the conflicts fierce but silent That at last have made me so. Shall the bright-winged bird be netted Singing in the open fields, And not struggle with the fowler, Long and vainly ere it yields— Or the heart to death surrender Mortal hoping without strife? But the struggle now is ended— Give me, God, a better life!

Legend of Seville

"Now," said the hindmost, "by my troth Shamed is my knighthood for ye both."— So, pricking sharply, on they rode, These men who three gray mules bestrode.

Close where a whimpering river lay Stood huts of fishers; all that day Drying their loose nets in the sun, They told how murders might be done.

A moorish tower of yellow stone Shadowed that river-bridge, o'ergrown With lichen and the marish moss— Forward the stripling rode to cross:

Close came the others man by man, But farther than the shadow ran, The legend says, they never rode, These men who three gray males bestrode.

To the Winds

Tell me, for oft you go, Winds, lovely winds of night, About the chambers low, With sheets so dainty white, If they sleep through all the night, In the beds so chill and white:

Talk to me, winds, and say, If in the grave be rest; For, oh, life's little day Is a weary one at best; Talk to my heart and say If death will give me rest.

Annuaries

tpp|ANNUARIES.| {asc}<>I.

A year has gone down silently

To the dark quiet of the Past,

Since I beneath this very tree

Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last;

Its waning glories, like a flame,

Are trembling to the wind's light touch—

All just a year ago the same,

And I—oh! I—am changed so much!

The beauty of a wildering dream

Hung softly round declining day;

A star of all too sweet a beam

In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay;

Changed in its aspect, yet the same,

Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,

But its embrace of beauteous flame

No longer clasps the world from wo.

Another year shall I return,

And cross this solemn chapel floor,

While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn—

Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?

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One that I loved, grown faint with strife, When drooped and died the tenderer bloom, Folded the white tent of young life For the pale army of the tomb.

The dry seeds dropping from their pods, The hawthorn apples bright as dawn, And the grey mullen's starless rods, Were just as now a year agone; But changed is everything to me, From the small flower to sunset's glow, Since last I sat beneath this tree, A year—a little year—ago.

I leaned against this broken bough, This faded turf my footstep pressed; But glad hopes that are not there now, Lay softly trembling in my breast— Trembling, for though the golden haze, Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by, As from the Vala of old days, The mournful voice of prophecy.

Give woman's heart one triumph hour. Even on the borders of the grave, And thou hast given her strength and power The saddest ills of life to brave; Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring To the poor bird the tempest's wrath, Without the petrel's stormy wing To beat the darkness from its path.

ppoem| start=stanza| Once knowing mortal hope and fear,

Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art,

Bend, pitying mother, softly near,

And save, O save me from my heart!

Be still, oh mournful memory,

My knee is trembling on the sod—

The heir of immortality,

A child of the eternal God.

{asc}<>II.

When last year took her mournful flight,

With all her train of wo and ill,

As pale processions sweep at night

Across some lonesome burial hill—

My soul with sorrow for its mate,

And bowed with unrequited wrong,

Stood knocking at the starry gate

Of the wild wondrous realm of song.

Hope from my noon of life was gone,

With all the sheltering peace it gave,

And a dim twilight stealing on,

Foretold the night-time of the grave.

Past is that time of wild unrest,

Hope reillumes its faded track,

And the soft hand of love has prest

Death's deep and awful shadows back.

A year agone, when wildly shrill

The wind sat singing on this bough,

The churchyard on the neighboring hill

Had not so many graves as now.

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Yet am I spared—God knoweth why, And by the hand of Fancy led, The same as in the years gone by, Musing this idle rhyme I tread.

When the May-morn, with hand of light, The clouds about her bosom drew, And o'er the blue, cold steeps of night Went treading out the stars like dew— One, whose dear joy it had been ours Two little summer times to keep, Folded his white hands from the flowers, And, softly smiling, fell asleep.

And when the northern light streamed cold Across October's moaning blast, One whose brief tarrying was foretold All the sweet summer that was past, Meekly unlocked from her young arms The scarcely faded bridal crown, And in death's fearful night of storms The dim day of her life went down.

Above yon reach of level mist Bright shines the cross-crowned spire afar, As in the sky's clear amethyst The splendor of some steadfast star; And still beneath its steady light The waves of time heave to and fro, From night to day, from day to night, As the dim seasons come and go.

ppoem| start=stanza| Some eager for ambition's strife,

Some to love's banquet hurrying on,

Like pilgrims on the hills of life

We cross each other, and are gone;

But though our lives are little drops,

Welled from the infinite fount above,

Our deaths are but the mystic stops

In the great melody of love.

{asc}<>III.

Vailing the basement of the skies

October's mists hang dull and red,

And with each wild gust's fall and rise,

The yellow leaves are round me spread;

'Tis the third autumn, aye, so long!

Since memory 'neath this very bough,

Thrilled my sad lyre strings into song—

What shall unlock their music now?

Then sang I of a sweet hope changed,

Of pale hands beckoning, glad health fled,

Of hearts grown careless or estranged,

Of friends, or living, lost, or dead.

O living lost, forever lost,

Your light still lingers, faint and far,

As if an awful shadow crossed

The bright disk of the morning star.

Blow, autumn, in thy wildest wrath,

Down from the northern woodlands, blow!

Drift the last wild-flowers from my path—

What care I for the summer now!

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Yet shrink I, trembling and afraid From searching glances inward thrown; What deep foundation have I laid, For any joyance not my own?

While with my poor, unskilful hands, Half hopeful, half in vague alarm, Building up walls of shining sands That fell and faded with the storm, E'en now my bosom shakes with fear, Like the last leaflets of this bough, For through the silence I can hear, "Unprofitable servant, thou!"

Yet have there been, there are to-day In spite of health, or hope's decline, Fountains of beauty sealed away From every mortal eye but mine; Even dreams have filled my soul with light, And on my way their splendor left, As if the darkness of the night Were by some planet's rising cleft.

And peace hath in my heart been born, That shut from memory all life's ills, In walking with the blue-eyed morn Among the white mists of the hills. And joyous, I have heard the wails That heave the wild woods to and fro, When autumn's crown of crimson pales Beneath the winter's hand of snow.

Once, leaving all its lovely mates, On yonder lightning-withered tree, That vainly for the springtime waits, A wild bird perched and sang for me; And listening to the clear sweet strain That came like sunshine o'er the day, My forehead's hot and burning pain Fell like a crown of thorns away.

But shadows from the western height Are stretching to the valley low, For through the cloudy gates of night The day is passing, solemn, slow, While o'er yon blue and rocky steep The moon, half hidden in the mist, Waits for the loving wind to keep The promise of the twilight tryst.

Come thou, whose meek blue eyes divine, What thou, and only thou canst see, I wait to put my hand in thine— What answer sendest thou to me? Ah! thoughts of one whom helpless blight Had pushed from all fair hope apart, Making it thenceforth hers to fight The stormy battles of the heart.

Well, I have no complaint of wrath, And no reproaches for my doom; Spring cannot blossom in thy path So bright as I would have it bloom.

ppoem| start=stanza| {asc}<>IV.

Oh, sorrowful and faded years,

Gathered away a time ago,

How could your deaths the fount of tears

Have troubled to an overflow?

I muse upon the songs I made

Beneath the maple's yellow limbs,

When down the aisles of thin cold shade

Sounded the wild bird's farewell hymns

But no sad spell my spirit binds

As when, in days on which it broods,

October hunted with the winds

Along the reddening sunset woods.

Alas, the seasons come and go,

Brightly or dimly rise and set

The days, but stir no fount of wo,

Nor kindle hope, nor wake regret.

I sit with the complaining night,

And underneath the waning moon,

As when the lilies large and white

Lay round the forehead of the June.

What time within a snowy grave

Closed the blue eyes so heavenly dear,

Darkness swept o'er me like a wave,

And time has nothing that I fear.

The golden wings of summer's hours

Make to my heart a dirge-like sound,

The spring's sweet boughs of bridal flowers

Lie bright across a smooth-heaped mound.

|end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| What care I that I sing to-day

Where sound not the old plaintive hymns,

And where the mountains hide away

The sunset maple's yellow limbs?

{asc}<>V.

On the brown, flowerless meadow lies

The wraith of summer; oat flowers bright

Nod heavy on her death-blind eyes,

Smiling with melancholy light.

And Autumn, with his eyelids red

Drooped to her beauty, sits to-day,

His sad heart sweetly comforted

By storms upon their starless way.

Seasons continuous, mingling, thrill

Our souls, as notes that sweetly blend,

Until we cannot, if we will,

Tell where they or begin or end.

And while the blue fly sings so well,

And while the cricket chirps so low;

In the bright grass, I scarce can tell

If there be daisy-flakes, or snow.

But when along the slumberous blue,

And dreamy, quiet atmosphere,

I look to find the April dew,

I know the Autumn time is here.

The lampless hollow of the skies

Is full of mists, or blank, or dun;

Where all day, soft and warm, there lies

A shadow that should be the sun.

|end=stanza

The winds go noiseless on their way, Scarcely the lightest twig is stirred; Not through the wild green boughs of May Slips the blue lizard so unheard. Under the woolly mullen, flat Against the dust, together creep The shining beetles; and the bat Is drowsing to his winter sleep.

The iron-weeds' red tops are down, Wilted from all their summer sheen The fennel's golden buds are brown, And loneliest in all the scene: Hither and thither lightly blows A white cloud o'er the darkening wood, Like some unpastured lamb that goes Climbing and wandering for food.

But plenty gladdens all the world, For corn is ripe, if flowers be o'er; Autumn, with yellow beard uncurled In summer's grave-damps, sigh no more! Sigh no more, Autumn! sigh no more— For if the blooming boughs have shed Their pleasant leaves, the light will pour So much the brighter on thy head.

And while thy mourning voice is staid I'll play my pipe, so adding on Another to the rhymes I made Ere youth, my pretty mate, was gone.

Winds, stirring through the pinetops high, Or hovering on the ocean's breast, Blow softly on the ways that lie Sloping and brightening toward the West.