Clinton Scollard Poems

In the under-wood and the over-wood
There is murmur and trill this day,
For every bird is in lyric mood,
And the wind will have its way.
...

The wind from the desert blew in!
It blew from the heart of the fiery south,
...

‘T Was Captain Church, bescarred and brown,
And armed cap-a-pie.
Came ambling into Plymouth-town;
And from far riding up and down
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Say, O wander-lover, say,
What is May in Umbria?

Days that never dim nor darkle;
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Why dost thou hail with songful lips no more
The glorious sunrise?—Why is Memnon mute,
Whose voice was tuned as is the silvery flute
...

The world is locked in sleep with perfect night.
Gazing from out my window I behold
The moon, a burnished bowl of gleaming gold,
...

At noon of night the goddess, silver-stoled,
Came with light foot across the moonlit land,
And breezes soft as blow o'er Samarcand
...

THEY rode from the camp at morn
With clash of sword and spur.
The birds were loud in the thorn,
The sky was an azure blur.
...

Sylvia's hair is like the night,
Touched with glancing starry beams;
Such a face as drifts thro' dreams,
This is Sylvia to the sight.
...

A Triton, drowsy as the god of Sleep,
From horn uplifted pours a limpid stream
Athwart whose falling drops the sunbeams gleam
...