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THE POET'S SONG.

'HE rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

THE

He passed by the town, and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak

And stared, with his foot on the prey,

And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away."

LILIAN.

AIRY, fairy Lilian,

Flitting, fairy Lilian,
When I ask her if she love me,
Clasps her tiny hands above me,
Laughing all she can ;

LILIAN.

She 'll not tell me if she love me,

Cruel little Lilian.

When my passion seeks
Pleasance in love-sighs,

She, looking through and through me
Thoroughly to undo me,

Smiling, never speaks:
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
From beneath her gathered wimple

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies.

Prithee weep, May Lilian!

Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Through my very heart it thrilleth

When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth:

Prithee weep, May Lilian.

Praying all I can,

If

prayers will not hush thee,
Airy Lilian,

Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
Fairy Lilian.

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THE OWL.

WHEN

WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits
The white owl in the belfry sits.

TO THE OWL.

TO THE SAME.

THX

HY tuwhits are lulled, I wot,
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
Which upon the dark afloat,

So took echo with delight,
So took echo with delight,

That her voice, untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.

I would mock thy chant anew;
But I cannot mimic it;
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

With a lengthened loud halloo,

Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.

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A SPIRIT HAUNTS.

I.

SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours,
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks;

A

For at eventide, listening earnestly,

At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers:

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

II.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose
An hour before death;

My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

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