THE DAY

Dewy, dewy lawn-slopes,

Is this the day she comes?

O wild-flower face of Morning,

Must you never wake?

Silvery, silvery sea-line,

Does she come to-day?

O murmurous, murmurous birch-leaves,

Beneath your whispering shadow

She will surely pass;

And thrush beneath the black-thorn

And white-throat in the pine-top,

Sing as you have never sung,

For she will surely come!

The lone green of the lawn-slope,

The grey light on the sky-line,

The mournful stir of birch-leaves,

The thin note of the brown thrush,

And the call of troubled white-throats

Across the afternoon!—

Ah, Summer now is over,

And for us the season closed,

For she who came an hour ago

Has gone again —

Has gone!