PRAETERITA.

Low belts of rushes ragged with the blast;

Lagoons of marish reddening with the west;

And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrest

While daylight dwindles and the dusk falls fast.

Set in sad walls, all mossy with the past,

An old stone gateway with a crumbling crest;

A garden where death drowses manifest;

And in gaunt yews the shadowy house at last.

Here, like some unseen spirit, silence talks

With echo and the wind in each gray room

Where melancholy slumbers with the rain:

Or, like some gentle ghost, the moonlight walks

In the dim garden, which her smile makes bloom

With all the old-time loveliness again.