No.4

SHELLEY’S SKYLARK

Somewhere afield here something lies
In Earth's oblivious eyeless trust

That moved a poet to prophecies,

A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust.

The dust of the lark that Shelley heard,
And made immortal through times to be;
Though it only lived like another bird,
And knew not its immortality.

Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell,
A little ball of feather and bone;
And how it perished, when piped farewell,
And where it wastes, are alike unknown.

Maybe it rests in the loam I view,
Maybe it throbs in a myrtle's green,
Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue
Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene.

Go find it, fairies, go and find
That tiny pinch of priceless dust,
And bring a casket silver-lined,
And framed of gold that gems encrust;

And we will lay it safe therein,
And consecrate it to endless time;
For it inspired a bard to win
Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme.

-oo0oo-

THE SELFSAME SONG

A bird sings the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.

A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
unchanged in a note!

But its not the selfsame bird,
No: perished to dust is he -
As also are those who heard
That song with me.

-oo0oo-

WEATHERS

1
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest"
And maids come forth sprig-muslin dressed,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

2
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-