POETRY.
And sings on the topmost spray ; And its song is ever the loudest
In the hush at the close of day.
There lies a child in a bedroom, White-gowned in a cot snow-white; And her laugh is ever the gayest In the dusk, at the fall of night.
My beautiful child in her chamber, My beautiful bird on the tree,
Whence comes it, ye twin blithe spirits,— Whence comes it that burst of glee P
Is it thanks for the day just over, No stain in the Past to rue ? Or the joy of the living Present ?
Ah, would I could be like you!
In a moment the thrush has ended ; In a moment the child lies down ; In a moment has sleep descended, And covered them both, God's own.
But I lie and toss on my pillow, I lie there the whole night long ; And I hear the hour from the distant tower Toll forth like a doleful song.
Ah, me, for the child's free spirit ! Ah, me, for the bird's gay tone ! Gifts greater we men inherit,
But the light, free heart has flown. A. G. B.
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