LIKE sea-pools on some restless, rock-strewn shore These bog-pools flutter ere they sink to rest, And o'er this surface, level as a floor, You blue reek trails its idle way to west.
It comes from thee, brown shieling, late bereft Of thy last fledglings ; tenement outworn, Long marked for desolation, and now left To two old hearts, submissive, but forlorn.
How like some wintry nest it shows to-night ; While over its bent thatch a young curved moon Peers through thin clouds scarce greyer than her light' Peers wistfully, as if arrived too soon, Or doubtful of her welcome. While I stand A string of wild duck speeds across her horn, Six, seven, eleven—Oh adventurous band !
Westward you stream, due west, and now are gone, Gone! gone! they leave us! yet the brown pools there Still dance and flutter in this crisping wind, And still the blue reek gaily mounts to where That new-born moon, so timid, yet so kind, Peers earthward, as if curious to mark A scene less often honoured of the sun.
Slowly the shadows lengthen, while the dark Grows deeper ; and another day is done. E. L.