Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/112

 But as in pale high autumn skies
 * The swallows float and play,

His restless thoughts pass to and fro,
 * But nowhere stay.

Soft, on the morrow, they are gone;
 * His garden then will be

Denser and shadier and greener,
 * Greener the moss-grown tree.