Till they be gold, and with a broader sphere
The moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves.
Hood.
When the falling waters utter
Something mournful on their way,
And departing swallows flutter,
Taking leave of bank and brae;
When the chaffinch idly sitteth
With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robin flitteth
Over beds of yellow leaves;
When the clouds like ghosts that ponder
Evil fate, float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander
Up and down, up and down:
Through the fields and fallows wending,
It is sad to walk alone.
Jean Ingelow.
St. Matthew. (September 21st.)
St. Matthee shut up the bee.