Stretching out their seven necks,

One before, and two behind,

And the others all arow,

And as steady as the wind

With a swivelling whistle go,

Through the purple shadow led,

Till we only hear their whir

In behind a rocky spur,

Just ahead.

[Pg 23]

[Pg 23]

IN OCTOBER.

Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,

Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar

The low long strip of dolorous red that lines

The under west, where wet winds moan afar.

The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows

With the blown leaves' wind-heapèd traceries,

And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows,

And bear no bloom for bees.

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