For migrants to be moving on, By lost indenture You flock and gather and are gone: The old adventure! 

 I too have my unwritten date, My gypsy presage; And on the brink of fall I wait The darkling message. 

 The sign, from prying eyes concealed, Is yet how flagrant! Here's ragged-robin in the field, A simple vagrant. 

THE MOTHER OF POETS. To H. F. H.

To H. F. H.

 The typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight; The mother of poets is sitting alone; Only the katydid teases the noonday; Where are the good-for-naught wanderbirds flown? 

 Tom's in the North with his purple impressions; Dickon's in London a-building his fame; Fred's in the mountains a-minding his cattle; Kavanagh's teaching and preaching and game. 

 Over in Kingscroft a toiler is writing, The boyish Old Man whom no fate ever floored; Karl's in New York with his briefs and his logic, That subtile mind like a velvet-sheathed sword. 

 Blomidon welcomes his brother in silence; Grand Pré is luring him back to her breast; Faint and far off are the cries of the city, There in the country of infinite rest. 

 All of them turn in their wide vagabondage, Halt and remember a place they have known, Where the typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight, And the mother of poets is sitting alone. 

 There they will surely some April forgather, Drink once together before they depart, One by one over the threshold of silence, On the long trail of the wandering heart. 

 Fear not, little mother, there may be a region Where poets have only to smile and keep still. The tick of the typewriter there will be useless, But there will be need of a motherkin still. 

A GOOD-BY.

 For love of the roving foot And joy of the roving eye, God send you store of morrows fair And a good rest by and by! 

IN A COPY OF BROWNING.

 Browning, old fellow, Your leaves grow yellow, Beginning to mellow As seasons pass. Your cover is wrinkled, And stained and sprinkled, And warped and crinkled From sleep on the grass. 

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