POETRY.
SUMMER TRYST.
WHEN the long day from quiet dawn
Has come to quietness again, And eve, advancing through the trees, Stretches long fingers o'er the lane, Then from the farm, across the field Of shut-eye daisies quick I go, And through the churchyard where old yews Guard the poor dead who lie below.
I know who's waiting down the road, Thinking " She's late," and " She'll not come,"
I'll see him first, whore I walk hid Behind the yew-trees in the gloom.
Oh ! how the thrush among the graves
Cries " Joy !" and "Joy !" and " Gay ! " and " Gay ! "
My heart thrills to his tiny heart.
Ah, shall I hurry, or delay ?
Alas ! poor dead, who lie so still, So hid, so deaf to that shrill call, And never hoar my footsteps pass, However quickened ; nor the fall Of ripe yew-berries on the stones Which lie so heavy on their bed. . .
Ah ! low beneath the thrush's note
A whistle sounds. . . . Poor dead I Poor dead!
IANTHE jERROLD.
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