Waiting

HE old sea here at my door,

The old hills there in the WestWhat can a man want more

Till he goes at last to his rest?

I have wandered over the earth,
I have lived in the years gone by.
Now here, in the place of my birth,
I wait till 't is time to die:

To sleep and to take my rest,
The old sea here at my door,
The grey hills there in the West..
What can a man want more?

H. D. Lowry.

IV. The Changing Year

(B 888)

11

"All seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon."

The Year

HE crocus, while the days are dark,
Unfolds its saffron sheen;

At April's touch, the crudest bark
Discovers gems of green.

Then sleep the seasons, full of might;
While slowly swells the pod

And rounds the peach, and in the night
The mushroom bursts the sod.

The winter falls; the frozen rut

Is bound with silver bars;

The snow-drift heaps against the hut,

And night is pierced with stars.

Coventry Patmore.

Song of the Year

IS a dull sight

To see the year dying,

When winter winds

Set the yellow wood sighing:

Sighing, O sighing!

When such a time cometh,

I do retire

Into an old room

Beside a bright fire:
O, pile a bright fire!