THE RIFT (SONG:  Minor Mode)

’Twas just at gnat and cobweb-time,
When yellow begins to show in the leaf,
That your old gamut changed its chime
From those true tones—­of span so brief! —
That met my beats of joy, of grief,
   As rhyme meets rhyme.

So sank I from my high sublime! 
We faced but chancewise after that,
And never I knew or guessed my crime. . . 
Yes; ’twas the date—­or nigh thereat —
Of the yellowing leaf; at moth and gnat
   And cobweb-time.

VOICES FROM THINGS GROWING IN A CHURCHYARD

These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd,
   Sir or Madam,
A little girl here sepultured. 
Once I flit-fluttered like a bird
Above the grass, as now I wave
In daisy shapes above my grave,
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily!

- I am one Bachelor Bowring, “Gent,”
   Sir or Madam;
In shingled oak my bones were pent;
Hence more than a hundred years I spent
In my feat of change from a coffin-thrall
To a dancer in green as leaves on a wall. 
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily!

- I, these berries of juice and gloss,
   Sir or Madam,
Am clean forgotten as Thomas Voss;
Thin-urned, I have burrowed away from the moss
That covers my sod, and have entered this yew,
And turned to clusters ruddy of view,
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily!

- The Lady Gertrude, proud, high-bred,
   Sir or Madam,
Am I—­this laurel that shades your head;
Into its veins I have stilly sped,
And made them of me; and my leaves now shine,
As did my satins superfine,
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily!

- I, who as innocent withwind climb,
   Sir or Madam. 
Am one Eve Greensleeves, in olden time
Kissed by men from many a clime,
Beneath sun, stars, in blaze, in breeze,
As now by glowworms and by bees,
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily! {2}

- I’m old Squire Audeley Grey, who grew,
   Sir or Madam,
Aweary of life, and in scorn withdrew;
Till anon I clambered up anew
As ivy-green, when my ache was stayed,
And in that attire I have longtime gayed
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily!

- And so they breathe, these masks, to each
   Sir or Madam
Who lingers there, and their lively speech
Affords an interpreter much to teach,
As their murmurous accents seem to come
Thence hitheraround in a radiant hum,
   All day cheerily,
   All night eerily!

ON THE WAY

The trees fret fitfully and twist,
Shutters rattle and carpets heave,
Slime is the dust of yestereve,
And in the streaming mist
Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.

But to his feet,
Drawing nigh and nigher
A hidden seat,
The fog is sweet
And the wind a lyre.