In the dim, gloomy doorway
I searched till I found
A dry withered leaf
Lying down on the ground.
With thin, pointed claws
And a dry dusty skin,—
Sure a hall is no place
For a leaf to be in!
Oh where is your tree,
And your summer and all,
Poor dusty leaf
Whistled into a hall?
MERRION SQUARE
Grey clouds on the tinted sky,
A drifting moon, a quiet breeze
Drooping mournfully to cry
In the branches of the trees.
The crying wind, the sighing trees,
The ruffled stars, the darkness falling
Down the sky, and on the breeze
A belated linnet calling.
THE BARE TREES
Unfortunates, on the bare tree!
I mourn for ye
That have no place to house,
But on those winter-white cold boughs
To sit,
(How far apart ye sit)
And brood
In this wide, wintry solitude
That has no song at all to hearten it.