Page:A masque of poets 1878.djvu/143

Rh Now the wind has caught the strain And drops the leaves, and listens fain: For the souls a sweet wind borrow To intone of earth's to-morrow.

When the road is still I hear, Like crushed grapes, the notes of cheer; When from these million tongues of leaves The wind dead Pentecost receives, I wait, the organ builds the while; 'Twixt me and the eternal smile A scurry flits: but, tone-piers sinking, Psalmward across I go unshrinking.