Where once lay sterile snow;

Soon shall I gaze across a sea

Of sun-begotten grain,

Which my unflinching watch hath sealed

For harvest once again.

[Pg 23]

[Pg 23]

NOD

Softly along the road of evening,

In a twilight dim with rose,

Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew

Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,

Their fleeces charged with gold,

To where the sun's last beam leans low

On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,

From their sand the conies creep;

And all the birds that fly in heaven

Flock singing home to sleep.

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