The dark trees shivered to behold Another day begin; She, being hopeless, did not weep As the grey dawn came in.

 

IN AUTUMN.

FRAIL autumn lights upon the leaves Beacon the ending of the year. The windy rains are here, Wet nights and blowing winds about the eaves.

Here in the valley, mists begin To breathe about the river side The breath of autumn-tide. The dark fields wait to take the harvest in.

And you, and you are far away. Ah, this it is, and not the rain Now loud against the pane, That takes the light and colour from the day!

 

ON THE ROADS.

THE road winds onward long and white, It curves in mazy coils, and crooks A beckoning finger down the height; It calls me with the voice of brooks To thirsty travellers in the night.

I leave the lonely city street, The awful silence of the crowd; The rhythm of the roads I beat, My blood leaps up, I shout aloud, My heart keeps measure with my feet.

Nought know, nought care I whither I wend:  ’Tis on, on, on, or here or there. What profiteth it an aim or end? I walk, and the road leads anywhere. Then forward, with the Fates to friend!

’Tis on and on! Who knows but thus Kind Chance shall bring us luck at last? Adventures to the adventurous! Hope flies before, and the hours slip past: O what have the hours in store for us?

A bird sings something in my ear, The wind sings in my blood a song Tis good at times for a man to hear; The road winds onward white and long, And the best of Earth is here!

 

PIERROT IN HALF-MOURNING.

I THAT am Pierrot, pray you pity me! To be so young, so old in misery: See me, and how the winter of my grief Wastes me, and how I whiten like a leaf, And how, like a lost child, lost and afraid, I seek the shadow, I that am a shade, I that have loved a moonbeam, nor have won Any Diana to Endymion. Pity me, for I have but loved too well The hope of the too fair impossible. Ah, it is she, she, Columbine: again I see her, and I woo her, and in vain. She lures me with her beckoning finger-tip; How her eyes shine for me, 

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