Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/360

 Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander, Light flocks of untameable birds; Some sang to me dreaming in class-time And truant in hand as in tongue; For the youngest were born of boy's pastime, The eldest are young.

Is there shelter while life in them lingers, Is there hearing for songs that recede, Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed? Is there place in the land of your labour, Is there room in your world of delight, Where change has not sorrow for neighbour And day has not night?

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, Will you spare not a space for them there Made green with the running of rivers And gracious with temperate air; In the fields and the turreted cities, That cover from sunshine and rain Fair passions and bountiful pities And loves without stain?

In a land of clear colours and stories, In a region of shadowless hours, Where earth has a garment of glories And a murmur of musical flowers;