A wet wind blows from the East one morning,
The wood’s gay garments looked draggled out.
You hear a sound, and your heart takes warning—
The birds are planning their winter route.
They wheel and settle and scold and wrangle,
Their tempers are ruffled, their voices loud;
Then whirr—and away in a feathered tangle,
To fade in the south like a passing cloud.
A songless wood stripped bare of glory—
A sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its last love-story:
Oh! let us away to the gay bright town.
SUN SHADOWS
There never was success so nobly gained,
Or victory so free from selfish dross,
But in the winning some one had been pained
Or some one suffered loss.
There never was so nobly planned a fête,
Or festal throng with hearts on pleasure bent,
But some neglected one outside the gate
Wept tears of discontent.
There never was a bridal morning fair
With hope’s blue skies and love’s unclouded sun
For two fond hearts, that did not bring despair
To some sad other one.
“HE THAT LOOKETH”
Yea, she and I have broken God’s command,
And in His sight are branded with our shame.
And yet I do not even know her name,
Nor ever in my life have touched her hand
Or brushed her garments. But I chanced to stand
Beside her in the throng! A sweet, swift flame
Shot from her flesh to mine—and hers the blame
Of willing looks that fed it; aye, that fanned
The glow within me to a hungry fire.
There was an invitation in her eyes.
Had she met mine with coldness or surprise,
I had not plunged on headlong in the mire
Of amorous thought. The flame leaped high and higher;
Her breath and mine pulsated into sighs,
And soft glance melted into glance kiss-wise,
And in God’s sight both yielded to desire.