Fleet-footed as of yore,

The noonday ringing with her frighted peals,

Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran,

Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heels

The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.

DISTANCE

To the distance! Ah, the distance!

Blue and broad and dim!

Peace is not in burgh or meadow,

But beyond the rim.

Aye, beyond it, far beyond it;

Follow still my soul,

Till this earth is lost in heaven,

And thou feel'st the whole.

[25]

THE BIRD AND THE HOUR

The sun looks over a little hill

And floods the valley with gold—

A torrent of gold;

And the hither field is green and still;

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