P. J. McCall.
[THE FEATHERED HERMIT]
Blackbird, who pourest praise,
Deep hidden 'neath the bough,
No bell to call the Hours
Thou needest, thou;
Each hour, O hermit, from thy throat,
Wells thy sweet, soft, peaceful note.
[AN APHORISM]
Time was, I was not here;
Short the time for me, I fear!
Death comes, that is clear;
It is not clear when death is near.