THERE is a month between the swath and sheaf
When grass is gone
And corn still grassy;
When limes are massy
Plato of the clear, dreaming eye and brave
Imaginings, conceived, withdrawn from light,
The hollow of man's heart even as a cave.
'The last load is carried,
The meadow is mown;
Then why on the scythe-track
Still wanderest lone?
Ah me, if I grew sweet to man
It was but as a rose that can
No longer keep the breath that heaves
And swells among its folded leaves.
Come, dark-eyed Sleep, thou child of Night,
Give me thy dreams, thy lies;
Lead me through the horny portal white
The pleasure day denies.
I HEARD a morning thrush salute the rains
That beat in soft, prolific rush,
Armies of angry dewdrops on the panes,
I thought of leaving her for a day
In town, it was such an iron winter
At Durdans, the garden frosty clay,
The woods as dry as any splinter,
BUT why is Nature at such heavy pause,
And the earth slowly ceasing to revolve?
Only the lapping tides abide their laws,
NOT alone in Palestine those blessed Feet have trod,
For I catch their print,
I have seen their dint
On a plot of chalky ground,