THE GRAY LINNET
There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush,
Clothed in sackcloth—a little gray friar,
Like the druid of old in his temple—but hush!
He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.
Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,
And around us so wantonly float,
Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies
From the silvery reel of his throat?