Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/56

Rh Has touched me, and my winter lowers Ere yet my spring has hardly flown, A shrub in one day overthrown! That had produced some common flowers, But had too little sap to deck Its branches thin with any fruit: Fall, fall ye leaves, the world's a wreck! And Hope no more hath room to shoot! Veil from all eyes the mournful road! Veil from my mother's blank despair The place which must be my abode To-morrow, and her sorrow spare. But if towards the lonely lane The maid I love should ever stray, To weep when daylight softly dies, With a slight rustle, wake again My shadow underneath the clay, And so console it where it lies.'

He said, and went. . . . and came not back. The last leaf from the bough that fell Signalled his last day on the earth. Clouds in the heavens hung scowling, black, When 'neath an oak of sovereign girth They laid him in his lonely cell. But she the loved one to the wood Came never. By the cold grey stone No sound is heard; the solitude Is undisturbed save when alone, The herdsman's steps, by chance, intrude, Or hidden dove coos monotone.