Ethelwyn Wetherald Poems

The Great soft downy snow storm like a cloak
Descends to wrap the lean world head to feet;
It gives the dead another winding sheet,
...

With slender arms outstretching in the sun
The grass lies dead;
The wind walks tenderly and stirs not one
Frail fallen head.
...

When I see,
High on the tip-top twig of a tree,
Something blue by the breezes stirred,
But so far up that the blue is blurred,
...

Muck of the sty, reek of the trough,
Blackened my brow where all might see,
Yet while I was a great way off
...

I saw a mother holding
Her play-worn baby son,
Her pliant arms enfolding
The drooping little one.
...

How dear to hearts by hurtful noises scarred
In the stillness of the many-leavèd trees,
The quiet of green hills, the million-starred
...

Here in the crowded city's busy street,
Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng,
Where Traffic's voice grows harsher and more strong,
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Hearing the strange night-piercing sound
Of woe that strove to sing,
I followed where it hid, and found
A small soft-throated thing,
...

If one might live ten years among the leaves,
Ten–only ten–of all a life's long day,
Who would not choose a childhood 'neath the eaves
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Open your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood;
Wash me clean of dust and din,
Clothe me in your mood.
...