Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/258

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Till shadows of vague trees deceive the eyes,

And stealthily the sun begins to rise,

Striving to smear with pink the frosted sky,

And pierce the silver mists' opacity;

Until the hazy silhouettes grow clear,

And faintest hints of colouring appear,

And the slow, throbbing, red, distorted sun

Reaches the sky, and all the large mists run,

Leaving the little ones to wreathe and shiver,

Pathetic, clinging to the friendly river;

Until the watchful heron, grim and gaunt,

Shows ghostlike, standing at his chosen haunt,

And jerkily the moorhens venture out,

Spreading swift-circled ripples round about,

And softly to the ear, and leisurely,

Querulous, comes the plaintive plover's cry;

And then maybe some whispering near by,

Some still small sound as of a happy sigh,

Shall steal upon my senses soft as air,

And, brother! I shall know that you are there.

And in the lazy summer nights I'll glide

Silently down the sleepy river's tide,

Listening to the music of the stream,

The plop of ponderously playful bream,

The water whispering around the boat,

And from afar the white owl's liquid note,

Lingering through the stillness soft and slow,

Watching the little yacht's red, homely glow,

Her vague reflection, and her clean-cut spars,

Ink-black against the silverness of the stars,

Stealthily slipping into nothingness;

While on the river's moon-splashed surfaces,

Tall shadows sweep. Then when I go to rest

It may be that my slumbers will be blessed

By the faint sound of your untroubled breath,

Proving your presence near, in spite of death. Miles Jeffrey Game Day