All clothed in the beauteous light of the Father’s face.
Those downward-going bore, in charming case,
The melodies which men and birds might make.
The rising throng made perfect the chords apace
Produced below, ecstatic in their wide wake;
I longed to tarry ever there, without a break.
TWILIGHT
But ho! Presto-“Bob-White! Bob, Bob-White!”
“I announced the morn and now the night.”
Bestirred in the gloaming by Bob-White’s last call,