That none but stars and biting winds may read;

Here I will wait a little; I am weary,

Not torn with pain of any lurid hue,

But only still and very gray and dreary,

Sweet sombre lands, like you.

LAMENT OF THE WINDS.

We in sorrow coldly witting,

In the bleak world sitting, sitting,

By the forest, near the mould,

Heard the summer calling, calling,

Through the dead leaves falling, falling,

That her life grew faint and old.

And we took her up, and bore her,

With the leaves that moaned before her,

To the holy forest bowers,

[Pg 25]

Where the trees were dense and serried,

And her corpse we buried, buried,

In the graveyard of the flowers.

Now the leaves, as death grows vaster,

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