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534 

EDITH MAY.

Shifting from leaf to leaf. Tree-top and trunk
Now lift so steadily, the airiest spray
Seems painted on the azure; evening comes
Up from the valleys; over-lapping hills
Tipped by the sunset, burn like funeral lamps
For the dead day; no pomp of tinsel clouds
Breaks the pure hyaline the mountains gird—
A gem without a flaw—but sharply drawn
On its transparent edge, a single tree
That has cast down its drapery of leaves 
Stands like an athlete, with broad arms outstretched, 
As if to keep November's winds at bay; 
Below, on poised wings, a hovering mist
Follows the course of streams; the air grows thick 
Over the dells. Mark how the wind, like one 
That gathers simples, flits from herb to herb 
Through the damp valley, muttering the while 
Low incantations! From the wooded lanes 
Loiters a bell's dull tinkle, keeping time 
To the slow tread of kine, and I can see,
By the rude trough the waters overbrim, 
The unyoked oxen gathered; some, athrist,
Stoop drinking steadily, and some have linked 
Their horns in playful war. Roads climb the hills, 
Divide the forests, and break off abrupt 
At the horizon; hither, from below, 
There comes a noise of lumbering, jarring wheels; 
The sound just struggles up the steep ascent, 
Then  drones off in the distance; nearer still 
A rifle's rattling charge starts up the echoes, 
That flutter like scared birds, and pause awhile, 
As on suspended wings, ere sinking slow 
To their low nests. I can distinguish now 
The labourer returning from his toil,
With shouldered spade, and weary, laggard foot; 
The cattle straying down the dusty road; 

535

EDITH MAY.

The sportsman balancing his idle gun, 
Whistling a light refrain, while close beside, 
His hound, with trailing ears and muzzle dropped,
Follows some winding scent. From the gray east,
Twilight, upglancing with dim, fearful eyes,
Warns me away. 
               
The dusk sits like a bird 
Up in the tree-tops, and swart, elvish shadows
Dart from the wooded pathways. Wraith of day!
Through thy transparent robes the stars are plain!
Along those swelling mounds that look like graves, 
Where flowers grow thick in June, thy step falls soft 
As the dropped leaves! Amid the faded brakes
The wind, retreating, hides, and cowering there, 
Whines at thy coming like a hound afraid!

THE COLORING OF HAPPINESS. 

My heart if full of prayer and praise to-day, 
So beautiful the whole world seems to me!
I know the morn has dawned as is its wont, 
I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing, 
I know the brook chimed yesterday that same
Melodious call to my unanswering thought——
But I look forth with new created eyes, 
And soul and sense seem linked and thrill alike, 
And things familiar have unusual grown, 
Taking my spirit with a fair surprise. 

But yesterday, and life seemed tented round 
With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out 
But with a mournful meaning; not a cloud,
And there were many, but in flitting past, 
Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart,
And loitering, half becalmed, unfreighted all,
Went by the heaven-bound hours.  

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 09:58:21 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 12:05:49 one spelling error. All done!