THE weeks that walk in green
Came to my willow lane,
And wrapt me in their leafy screen
Against the sun and rain.
Then far and far we went
By stream and wood and steep,
Until, all love-worn and joy-spent,
I yielded me to sleep.
And they—they died unseen;
Their ghosts are haunting me—
The gentle ghosts that walk in green
Through vales of memory.
Noonday of the Year
THE streams that chattered in the cold
Are sleeping in the sun;
The winds of March were overbold
Until their race was run.
O mad with haste the morning went,
But now love-warm and deep,
The fields, their first ambition spent,
Lie in their noonday sleep.
The Wind World
ALONE within the wind I lie,
And reck not how the seasons go;
The winter struggling through its snow,
The light-winged summer flitting by.