UNDERTONE.
NIGHT, rustling the grey grass, is at your door ;
Stir the coals, quietly—then look once more On the blue highroad, spread with mists that rise From water-meads. . . .
The spring dusk dies From your square window panes ; your firelight dips, Tremblingly, to your jar of closed cowslips.
You can hear a horse tear the cool spring grass At the road's edge, slowly—now his feet pass, Stumbling, to his own field. Now, like a thread Of sound drawn through the dark, wood waters tread On rocks and small round stones—and now, again, The wind blows budded boughs against your pane.
" Rest now," the grass says, " rest "—and your coals part To show the dreamlit caves of the fire's heart. " Rest now," the grass says. " Rest," the blown trees sing . Up the highroad you hear the inn sign swing.
DOROTHY ROBERTS.
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