When every tree relinquisheth
Its garb of green for sombre brown,
And all the leaves are falling down,
While breezes blow with angry breath,
With gentle pitying voice she saith,
“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”
And at the sound they peaceful lie,
And wear a pleasant calm in death.
When winter frosts hold land and sea,
And barren want and bleaker wind
Leave every thought of good behind,
I look upon my love, and she
From thrall of winter sets me free;
And with a sense of perfect rest
I lay my head upon her breast,
And twenty summers shine for me.
J. T. Burton Wollaston.
ASLEEP.
LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay;
Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.
Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and found
Its beauty perfect in the breaking day.
Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away;
Alas! though with the entering sun that crowned
With light the beauty that mine arms enwound,
Came too the morning music of the bay.
I wept that Love had been and was no more,
That never shower nor sunlight should restore
The love that gave her life and heart to me;
While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,
Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn,
Green April wantoned on the noisy sea.
Theodore Wratislaw.
SWIMMING SONG.
THE broad green rollers lift and glide
Beneath our hearts as, side by side,
We breast them blithely, blithely swim
Toward the far horizon’s rim.
The murmur of the land recedes,
The land of grief that aches and needs;
We only as we fall and rise
Drink deep the splendour of the skies.