THE LITTLE SALAMANDER: TO MARGOT
THE SUNKEN GARDEN
Breathe not—trespass not;
Of this green and darkling spot,
Latticed from the moon’s beams,
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;
Perchance upon its darkening air,
The unseen ghosts of children fare,
Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,
Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;
While, unmoved, to watch and ward,
’Mid its gloom’d and daisied sward,
Stands with bowed and dewy head
That one little leaden Lad.
THE RIDDLERS
A Moon was there. So still her beam,
It seemed the whole world lay a-dream,
Lulled by the watery sea.
And from her leafy night-hung nook
Upon this stranger soft did look
The Nightingale: sighed he:—
‘’Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher
But yestermorn conjured me here
Out of his green and gold to say
Why thou, in splendour of the noon
Wearest of colour but golden shoon.
And else dost thee array
In a most sombre suit of black?
“Surely,” he sighed, “some load of grief,
Past all our thinking—and belief—
Must weigh upon his back!”
Do, then, in turn, tell me,—If joy
Thy heart as well as voice employ,
Why dost thou now, most Sable, shine
In plumage woefuller far than mine?
Thy silence is a sadder thing
Than any dirge I sing!’