the emerald wing of the kingfisher Flashes, the fish in his beak! there the dab-chick dived, and the motion Lazily undulates all thro’ the tall standing army of rushes.

Joy thus to revel all day, till the twilight turns us homeward!  Till all the lingering deep-blooming splendour of sunset is over, And the one star shines mildly in mellowing hues, like a spirit Sent to assure us that light never dieth, tho’ day is now buried.  Saying:  to-morrow, to-morrow, few hours intervening, that interval Tuned by the woodlark in heaven, to-morrow my semblance, far eastward, Heralds the day ’tis my mission eternal to seal and to prophecy.  Come then, and homeward; passing down the close path of the meadows.  Home like the bees stored with sweetness; each with a lark in the bosom, Trilling for ever, and oh! will yon lark ever cease to sing up there?

     To A skylark

     O skylark!  I see thee and call thee joy! 
     Thy wings bear thee up to the breast of the dawn;
     I see thee no more, but thy song is still
     The tongue of the heavens to me!

     Thus are the days when I was a boy;
     Sweet while I lived in them, dear now they’re gone: 
     I feel them no longer, but still, O still
     They tell of the heavens to me.

     Song—­spring

     When buds of palm do burst and spread
     Their downy feathers in the lane,
     And orchard blossoms, white and red,
     Breathe Spring delight for Autumn gain;
     And the skylark shakes his wings in the rain;

     O then is the season to look for a bride! 
     Choose her warily, woo her unseen;
     For the choicest maids are those that hide
     Like dewy violets under the green.

     Song—­autumn

     When nuts behind the hazel-leaf
     Are brown as the squirrel that hunts them free,
     And the fields are rich with the sun-burnt sheaf,
     ’Mid the blue cornflower and the yellowing tree;
     And the farmer glows and beams in his glee;

     O then is the season to wed thee a bride! 
     Ere the garners are filled and the ale-cups foam;
     For a smiling hostess is the pride
     And flower of every Harvest Home.

     Sorrows and joys

     Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise
     As souls to the immortal skies,
     And there look down like mothers’ eyes.

     But let thy joys be fresh as flowers,
     That suck the honey of the showers,
     And bloom alike on huts and towers.

     So shall thy days be sweet and bright;
     Solemn and sweet thy starry night,
     Conscious of love each change of light.

     The stars will watch the flowers asleep,
     The flowers will feel the soft stars weep,
     And both will mix sensations deep.

     With these below, with those above,
     Sits evermore the brooding dove,
     Uniting both in bonds of love.