Placid as swans that drift in dream
Round the next river-bend.”
Our poet had the charming habit of making some characteristic bird-way do deft metaphorical duty in his verse, like the skilful weaver who runs a line of exquisite tint through his weft. Here is an instance, found in the poem called “Threnodia,”—
“I loved to see the infant soul
· · · · · · ·
Peep timidly from out its nest,
His lips, the while,
Fluttering with half-fledged words,
Or hushing to a smile
That more than words expressed,