She did not scream, Baptiste,
She launched her canoe;
It did seem, Baptiste,
That she wanted to die too,
For before you could think
The birch cracked like a shell
In that rush of hell,
And I saw them both sink—
Baptiste!—
He had two girls,
One is Virginie,
What God calls the other
Is not known to me.
THE END OF THE DAY
I hear the bells at eventide
Peal slowly one by one,
Near and far off they break and glide,
Across the stream float faintly beautiful
The antiphonal bells of Hull;
The day is done, done, done,
The day is done.
The dew has gathered in the flowers,
Lake tears from some unconscious deep:
The swallows whirl around the towers,
The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars,
And leaves the single stars;
’Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep,
’Tis time for sleep.
The hermit thrush begins again,—
Timorous eremite—
That song of risen tears and pain,
As if the one he loved was far away:
‘Alas! another day—’
‘And now Good Night, Good Night,’
‘Good Night.’
THE REED-PLAYER
TO B. C.
By a dim shore where water darkening
Took the last light of spring,
I went beyond the tumult, hearkening
For some diviner thing.
Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,
Over the ebon pool
Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves
Lands ancient, bountiful.