A gray day and quiet,
With slow clouds of gray,
And in dull air a cloud that falls, falls
All day.

The naked and stiff branches
Of oak, elm, thorn,
In the cold light are like men aged and
Forlorn.

Only a gray sky,
Grass, trees, grass again,
And all the air a cloud that drips, drips,
All day.

Lovely the lonely
Bare trees and green grass--
Lovelier now the last hours of slow winter
Slowly pass.

        I.

Fleet swallows soared and darted
'Neath empty vaults of blue;
Thick leaves close clung or parted
To let the sunlight through;
Each wild rose, honey-hearted,
Bowed full of living dew.


        II.

Down deep, fair fields of Heaven,
Beat wafts of air and balm,
From southmost islands driven
And continents of calm;
Bland winds by which were given
Hid hints of rustling palm.


        III.

High birds soared high to hover;
Thick leaves close clung to slip;
Wild rose and snowy clover
Were warm for winds to dip,
And one ungentle lover,
A bee with robber lip.


        IV.

Dart on, O buoyant swallow!
Kiss leaves and willing rose!
Whose musk the sly winds follow,

I count the dismal time by months and years
Since last I felt the green sward under foot,
And the great breath of all things summer
Met mine upon my lips. Now earth appears
As strange to me as dreams of distant spheres
Or thoughts of Heaven we weep at. Nature's lute
Sounds on, behind this door so closely shut,
A strange wild music to the prisoner's ears,
Dilated by the distance, till the brain
Grows dim with fancies which it feels too
While ever, with a visionary pain,
Past the precluded senses, sweep and Rhine
Streams, forests, glades, and many a golden train
Of sunlit hills transfigured to Divine.

I.

                Orthodox, orthodox,
                Who believe in John Knox,
    Let me sound an alarm to your conscience,
                There's a heretic blast,
                Has been blawn i' the wast,
    That what is not sense must be nonsense,
        Orthodox,
    That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II.

                Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
                Ye should stretch on a rack,
    And strike evil doers wi' terror;
                To join faith and sense,
                Upon any pretence,
    Was heretic damnable error,
        Doctor Mac,
    Was heretic damnable error.

III.

                Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
                It was rash I declare,
    To meddle wi' misc...

After the songless rose of evening,
Night quiet, dark, still,
In nodding cavalcade advancing
Starred the deep hill:
You, in the valley standing,
In your quiet wonder took
All that glamour, peace, and mystery
In one grave look.
Beauty hid your naked body,
Time dreamed in your bright hair,
In your eyes the constellations
Burned far and fair.

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH

It was the season, when through all the land
    The merle and mavis build, and building sing
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand,
    Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blitheheart King;
When on the boughs the purple buds expand,
    The banners of the vanguard of the Spring,
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,
    Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
    Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;
And hungry crows assembled in a crowd,
    Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said:
"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bre...

    Who is it says May is the crown of the year?
    Who is it says June is the gladdest?
    Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere,
    The gloomiest season and saddest?

    You shut to your doors as I come with my train,
    And heed not the challenge I'm flinging,
    The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain,
    The scarlet vine creeping and clinging!

    Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen,
    With canopy rare stretching over;
    Come out where I revel in amber and green,
    And soon I may call you my lover!

    Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale,
    Come out ere your mood turns to blaming,
    Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale,
    Come out where my banners are flaming!

    Co...

With all my soul, then, let us part,
    Since both are anxious to be free;
And I will sand you home your heart,
    If you will send mine back to me.

We've had some happy hours together,
    But joy must often change its wing;
And spring would be but gloomy weather,
    If we had nothing else but spring.

'Tis not that I expect to find
    A more devoted, fond and true one,
With rosier cheek or sweeter mind--
    Enough for me that she's a new one.

Thus let us leave the bower of love,
    Where we have loitered long in bliss;
And you may down that pathway rove,
    While I shall take my way through this.