POETRY.
TWO POEMS.
WITHIN THE WOODS.
THE delicate rain is falling From the shining leaf-tips. Pendulous there A moment it hangs, then falls With aerial chime to the bracken at my feet, As the winds pass : or a dusk-drowsed bird Spills it in tinkling, quick cascade 0, why should there stir this lonely ache in me, As if the dimpling music woke An echo—voice to voice, Over some measureless chasm, calling, calling ?
THE POND.
TITE skies above the pond are bubble-bright In the still noon : and the leaves, unstirring, Hold each a pool of light.
Here wings no more go whirring—
Shut in the shade Is all the busy glow their beating made : And nothing moves—save two White clouds meandering over the mirror'd blue. . . .
As you, 0 pond, grow bright With the skies' light And with their peace are filled ; So, at your silence, is my spirit stilled.
C. HENRY WARREN.
Previous page
